


Fools' Gold

by digitalcatnip



Series: Fools' Gold [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apologies to Shakespeare, Asexual Relationship, Attempted Murder, Everyone's got depression and anxiety, Gen, Gratuitous use of French and the Cajun accent, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Is getting arrested a tag, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Organized Crime, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison, Road Trips, So much attempted murder, They're also aromantic!, crime doesn't pay, except when it does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 79,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/digitalcatnip/pseuds/digitalcatnip
Summary: “I feel like hittin’ the dance floor one more time before I go.”Anxiety gripped Ohache’s chest.  “Wh…wait what are you-”Vacherie grabbed the kid’s arm, eyes glittering.  “Laissez le bon temps rouler.”---She's loud, carries big guns, and drinks like a fish.  They're quiet, and nervous, and great at picking locks.  Together they make a great team, until they're behind closed doors and forced to confront their demons, both within and without.A road tripping crime story that's more about mental illness and its effect on relationships.
Series: Fools' Gold [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793713
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	1. Part 1 - Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in January 2016 and just finished my final editing pass in February 2020. It's been a labour of love and definitely a product if its time (2016 was a weird year,) but I'm still so chuffed that I finished a proper novel for once in my life.
> 
> The work is complete, but I'll be releasing it weekly on Mondays and Thursdays (if I can remember) until it's done :) The final word count is about 80k, so strap in folks.

_January_

It was snowing in Chicago. Not exactly a surprise for mid-January, but the sound of the dulled-out wipers scraping across the windshield of the bus was about to drive its passengers absolutely crazy. Everyone except the redhead in the third row, headphones plugged as far into their ears as they’d go, head laying on an overstuffed backpack that looked like it was made more for hiking than an everyday commute.

A phone buzzed in one of the backpack’s many pockets, jolting the sleeper awake as the text tone threatened to shatter their eardrums. Sleepily they fished out the phone, slowly focusing their eyes on the message on the screen.

_Where are you_

The sleeper couldn’t keep the exhalation of annoyance from escaping. _somewhere between my place and yours._

 _No shit Sherlock_ , came the almost immediate reply. _How long til you’ll be here?_

 _i don’t know the bus has a lot of stops downtown_ , then, _i’ll let you know when i’m close_

_Ok. Darren will pick you up at the station._

They dropped the phone back into its pocket, not bothering to reply.

They squeezed their eyes shut, trying to push down the irritation rising in their throat. They had been having a nice time with their family, eating actual food for the first time in months, and he had to fucking call them up on their day off, like _“Oh hey Red I have a job for you and you have to go right now because I’m super impatient and never let anyone have any fun, especially not you.”_

And so now they’re on a bus on the way to Indianapolis, little more than a discount Chicago in their opinion, full of those buildings that were made of red bricks and covered in decorative archways and columns that made them look like they were built in the 1400s by whoever built Notre Dame but are really only maybe fifty years old. The buildings looked about the same on the inside – decadent, yet dated, with marble squares for a floor with brass where grout should be, thousand-dollar stone mosaics in the wall in the shape of an eagle or something and metallic letters telling you the name of the building, like you didn’t already know from all the signs outside, and everything seemed perpetually under construction.

It was just like Chicago, and New York, and Houston, and every other huge city in the country, but Indianapolis just didn’t feel as…nice. Maybe because every time they came downtown, they got yelled at for something.

At least there was probably another two hours left in this drive to mentally prepare.

It was sunny in Indiana as Ohache walked slowly from the bus stop two blocks from the office through three inches of slightly melted snow to the front steps of a huge stone building with archways and columns, and, you could bet money on, marble floors with brass where grout should be. It looked like almost every other building on the street, except this one had a huge guy in a black suit just inside the door with a shotgun in his jacket.

“Mornin’ Ohache,” the huge guy in the black suit said as Ohache walked past him, backpack over their shoulder.

“Morning Tim,” Ohache mumbled, heading toward the gilded elevator across the room. One of them was smooth as silk, the other sounded like it might kill you at any second, and every time they pushed the button it was a gamble.

They got the murder elevator.

Twenty seconds later, the doors opened, releasing a slightly shaken Ohache into the lobby of the executive floor of the building. Their sneakers squeaked on even more marble flooring, though this time without the brass for grout. Tasteful stone walls and some interesting metal sculpture hanging from the ceiling added a tad more executive class.

A woman at a massively oversized white stone desk looked up from her computer. She didn’t ask who was there; she simply lifted the telephone and punched in a number.

Before she was able to get a connection and inform the person on the other line that they had a visitor, Ohache heard the sound of a heavy wooden door slamming shut, and the clicking of dress shoes fitted with heel plates echoing down the empty hallway behind the receptionist’s desk.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Benvolio looked a bit like a vampire – thin, pale, black hair, black eyes with dark circles under them from seemingly years of no sleep. What really sealed the look, though, was the fact that his teeth were really pointy, and he was always baring them at someone.

“You wanted me to come in today,” Ohache mumbled, not making eye contact.

“Yeah, from the _bus station_ ,” Benvolio hissed. “I sent Darren to get you and now I’ve wasted my gas and his time.”

“New bus stop, I guess.” It was a lie. Ohache had walked simply because they hated riding with the drivers. They always wanted to talk – one of Ohache’s least favourite activities. It was less stressful just to deal with the slush and sidewalk crowds.

“Why didn’t you text me?”

“I forgot.” Another lie.

Benvolio pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Just. Here.”

He shoved a folder into Ohache’s hands, spinning on his heels dramatically and walking a few steps away. Ohache glanced at the information inside – photos, blueprints, codes, plane tickets, all standard stuff.

 _Is he serious? He dragged me away from a nice weekend with my family all the way to this shit-ass city to send me to the East Coast for a fucking_ nightclub? 

Outwardly, Ohache said, “I’ll get the car to take me to the airport. So you don’t waste more gas.”

“No, you’d still be wasting my gas because apparently you can just go outside and grab a bus.”

“Then I’ll take the bus,” Ohache mumbled.

“At this point I really don’t care how you get there; I just want you to get there, and this year, _please_.” 

Benvolio pushed his hand into the pocket of his jacket the Ohache knew housed his cigarettes. He waited until Ohache had slunk backwards to the elevator bay before shoving his way through the balcony door and lighting up with a gold-plated flip lighter monogrammed with his initials and studded with a real, actual diamond.

Yorrick could smell Benvolio before he heard him walk into the room. This was what, his third? Fourth cigarette in the past hour? It wasn’t one of the good days, that’s for sure. There would probably be a lot of alcohol involved when they got home, too. And probably just as much of Yorrick having to make sure Benvolio doesn’t die of liver failure.

“Stacey again?” Yorrick asked, spinning around in his chair to face his employer, thick blonde curls bouncing around his face with the movement. He didn’t look much like a bodyguard – he had boyish features and a splash of freckles across his nose – but he was incredibly effective at breaking necks if the situation called for it. The dichotomy often worked in his favour.

Benvolio threw himself into his overstuffed executive chair, putting his feet up on a desk that probably cost more than a month of Yorrick’s salary with the level of respect one would give a table they had picked up from the city dump. “No, thank fucking god for once it wasn’t her. More like a thousand little things and I’m tired of having to deal with all of them.”

“Going to the range is less likely to give you cancer.”

“Smoking is less likely to get someone shot.”

Yorrick relented. “So what happened?” The question was mostly out of not really having anything to do than actual interest, but it would cheer Benvolio up a little to rant at someone for a while, so he asked anyway.

“Just…people not thinking. Making assumptions that end up not being right so they put everything behind schedule. Wasting my god damn gas because they didn’t think to tell me the bus line put a stop at the corner. Shit like that.”

“They put a bus stop on the corner?”

Benvolio angrily hammered the password to his computer in with one hand. “Apparently. At least that’s what the kid told me.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t see a bus stop sign when we came in today - wait, who told you that?”

“Your friend, the redhead. The one with the stupid codename.”

Yorrick’s brown eyes darkened. “Ohache.”

“Yeah that one.”

“Why was Ohache here?”

“Because it’s Thursday and I had a job for them to do.”

Yorrick struggled not to yell at his boss. “Ben, they were on vacation this week. They were probably with their family and you dragged them back here to work? What job did you give them?”

Benvolio waved a hand noncommittally. “That shark one up there in New England.”

“You dragged someone away from a family vacation to do a job that isn’t even urgent or important? That’s shitty even for you.”

“Don’t give me the angry face, Yor,” Benvolio warned. “It needed to get done.”

“Then give it to a new guy or something! A nightclub is not worth ruining someone’s vacation.”

“It is if you want it done right,” Benvolio growled. “And when you just need to get jobs done because the thing actually making your money is still lost somewhere in the damn Gulf of Mexico.”

Yorrick fought he urge to roll his eyes. Benvolio acted like they were going broke because a few hundred grand in heroin hasn’t been heard from in a week, when in reality he shat gold bullion and wiped his ass with hundred dollar bills afterwards. They lived in a penthouse, for god’s sake.

“I feel like it could have waited a couple more days,” he mumbled.

“Well I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

Benvolio ignored any further conversation, should Yorrick choose to pursue it, by typing as loudly as he possibly could.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double chapter to start, since the last one was technically a prologue :)

_January_

The music at the club sucked. Generic Top 40s tunes beat a boring rhythm in her chest as she leaned against the guard rail of the dance floor, tossing back the drink in her hand. She didn’t even remember what it was or who bought it for her, and she honestly didn’t care. She was just here to drink enough to forget about the bandages wrapping most of the bottom half of her body underneath the black fabric of her dress.

She was somewhere in Massachusetts…or was it Minnesota? Who knows, who cares. One of those pissant little states nobody ever thought about unless you lived there. She’d been driving all day, gritting her teeth against the pain of a knife wound she never should have gotten and the memory of having to stitch it herself, and it was time to relax.

As much as someone like her _could_ relax, anyway.

The drink was something fruity and it gave her a good buzz, but it wasn’t enough. Heels clicked on hardwood floor a she walked to the bar and ordered a scotch on the rocks, sipping a bit too enthusiastically. The song changed to something a little less awful than the last, and she decided maybe she should try dancing. She felt numb enough now.

She wasn’t really much of a dancer, to be honest, but the alcohol made her feel like she was on television, and the deejay was playing a song she actually knew and halfway liked. A fairly handsome man caught her in an arm, pulling her in, tipping her down, and he at least smelled okay, so she danced with him, pressing themselves together on the dance floor. It was rather crude, in all honesty, but she’ll never see this guy again, so why not enjoy the attention.

The song was almost over when she felt the hastily-sewn stitch pop in her side, a wave of pain shooting across her midsection like lightning. 

She excused herself and darted off the floor, thankful that the music drowned out the sound of his blue balls. She needed to get somewhere she could handle this without raising any alarms – a bathroom stall or something possibly more sanitary and containing less really drunk women nobody wanted to deal with. 

The bathroom was apparently on the other side of a portal to the piss dimension and she didn’t have to go bad enough for it to magically appear, but a dark staircase in a corner lent an opportunity for escape, so she moved toward it as casually she could while trying not to bleed on the carpet. A sign saying “Employees Only” tried to deter her, but this was an emergency.

A hallway of doors greeted her at the top, and surprisingly one of them was already open. She found herself habitually checking corners for cameras, even though she was here for pleasure, not work. The room seemed clear, and was markedly quieter than the outside, though the heavy bassline was still drumming in her ears.

She tossed her heels onto a nearby office chair and started pulling off her dress, grimacing at the spread of red on the bandage around her waist. The wound wasn’t deep enough to puncture anything important, but it hurt like hell and bled like a motherfucker. It’d leave a nasty scar for sure. Everyone who shared her line of work knew how to stitch themselves up with a field kit, but that doesn’t mean everyone was good at it.

It took longer than she really liked to get the suture replaced and the bleeding under control, but after a few bandage changes and plenty of sucking air through her teeth, she managed to get herself put together enough to at least make it back to a motel. She reached for her heels, but thought better of it, her toes threatening to out-pain the cut she had just re-stitched.

She pulled a pair of half-destroyed sneakers out of her purse and was pulling them on when she saw movement underneath the desk. 

She froze, holding her breath, muscles poised to reach for the 9mm handgun sitting snug in her purse’s false bottom. It wouldn’t do much if there was Kevlar involved, but it was a good enough bluff.

“Who dere?” She asked, thick accent making her sound a bit more aggressive than she felt, despite the alcohol slurring her words, just a little.

There was no answer. Instinctively, she reached into her bag, fingers pressing past the cardboard and leather insert, seeking the rubber grip of her handgun.

There was no answer, and she thumbed off the safety. Neither of them were supposed to be in here, but she knew from too much experience that when people who are in place they aren’t supposed to be are caught, things can get violent pretty quickly.

She caught a glimpse of a safe set in the wall, door hanging just ajar, a metal pin on the floor in front of it, as though someone had left in a hurry in the middle of something very important.

“Whatchu doin’ in ‘ere?”

She turned around the corner of the heavy wooden desk, staring down at figure curled underneath and behind the chair, curled in a ball, hands over their face, despite wearing a balaclava.

“You pickin’ dis safe?” She asked, nodding her head in the direction of the cowering intruder’s unfinished business.

The masked figure nodded, peeling away one hand to look up at her.

She lowered her gun and walked over to the safe, using an elbow to push the door open. It was full of small bags of what she could only imagine was some kind of delicious drug that would sell fabulously on the black market.

“Whatcha plannin’ on doin’ with it?”

The safecracker crawled out from under the table, visibly shaking. “I…was hired…actually I’m not even here for that, I came for money…” The voice was high pitched and cracking, definitely young, likely just out of the teen years. They start out younger and younger these days.

She was staring at the safe, fidgeting with her earring, thinking. She had to give the kid props for good work. No telling how long it took to pick this safe open, and there hadn’t been any alarm raised. In fact, she didn’t even know they were in the room with her until she’d leaned over to pull her shoes on, and more than likely the average person wouldn’t have noticed a thing.

The kid’s voice wavered. “If you’re gonna call the police just do it, already.”

She studied the drugs inside the safe. Probably coke, maybe uncut; she wasn’t good at judging these things. “Nah, I ain’t gonna call the cops on ya. We in the same line of work.”

The kid balked.

She turned to them and held out her hand. “Vacherie.”

The kid didn’t take it. _Smart,_ she thought, tucking her hand around her waist. The wound still hurt, a lot. 

“Ohache,” they said. It sounded more like just the letters O and H than a name, but Vacherie didn’t push it. A person’s alias was their own. Not that hers was a real name, either.

“So who ya workin’ for? I ain’t heard about no kids on the Net lately.”

“I don’t…I work with the Mercutios.” The kid’s voice was still wobbling like autumn’s last leaf, panic in their eyes.

“Mercutios?” Vacherie couldn’t place the name.

“A family in Indianapolis…”

Vacherie whistled. “Shit, a mafia?”

“N…no, more like a really fancy cartel.”

She stared at the safe hanging open. “Ya seem pretty decent at safecracking at least. Cartels pay good?”

Ohache shrugged. “Not as good as it should.”

Vacherie grinned. “Ooh, drama. What’s up, they don’ give ya a good cut, or they not using ya good enough?” She investigated the lock on the safe. Perfect – no scratches to show anyone had been here. Truly a professional, despite Ohache’s apparent age.

“Both.”

“How much you gettin’ paid for dis? Hundred? Hundred fifty?”

Ohache snorted. “Twenty.”

Vacherie stared at them. “Twenty? You kidding?”

“It’s a throwaway shark job. Someone didn’t pay their protection money. I might get an extra ten for the coke if I can carry it.”

“Damn, kid. Ya attached to yer job? ‘Cause honestly I would look somewhere else.”

An expression Vacherie couldn’t decipher flickered across Ohache’s face, just for a moment. Then, quietly, they said, “Loyalty is more important than good pay. I don’t really need money anyway.”

“Loyalty among criminals ain’t worth shit, kid.”

Ohache glanced over at the door. “I…really need to finish this…before the guy comes back…”

“Sure, but that’s mine.” She pointed at the neatly packaged cocaine in the safe. “Ya said ya didn’t need it, and _I_ enjoy money, so I’m gonna take it.”

Ohache stared at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

Vacherie scooped a couple bags under her arms. “No honour among thieves, kid. I can get like a hundred grand for this, I’mma take it.”

“Wait…wait.” Ohache’s eyebrows knit together beneath their balaclava. “A hundred?”

“ _My_ boss pays me.”

Ohache pressed their thumbs together. “Split it with me and I’ll give you some of the money I’m actually here for. I’m really just here to take what I can get; my boss won’t know if I give you a couple thousand of it.”

Vacherie studied their face for a minute. It was the face of a scared child, not the face of a negotiator. Someone was going to crucify this kid if they didn’t do their job to the best of their ability.

She tossed one of the bags at Ohache. “Sure.”

The basement smelled of mildew, and there was a drip somewhere in the wall that Vacherie was certain had already caused structural damage. Behind her, Ohache was picking a second safe that seemed to have been haphazardly tossed into a corner and forgotten, but the kid was certain it was full of the dirty money they were after.

“So…who’re the Mercutios?” Vacherie asked, irritated by the awkward and elongated silence.

“A father and son type thing. You know those online security ads you see on TV? That’s their front.” 

They couldn’t quite hide the impatience in their voice. Ohache was trying to focus on the lock they were picking, and Vacherie’s voice was throwing them off. They needed to listen to the sound of the tumblers inside moving, but she kept making noise every time it was important to pay attention.

“I’ve never heard of ‘em,” Vacherie muttered.

“Consider yourself lucky…Benvolio is a shitbag.”

“Benvolio…Mercutio…are you kidding me?” Vacherie laughed, genuinely. “Tell me dat’s a fake name.”

“The last name isn’t, for sure.” Dear god, why won’t she shut up? “The first name almost certainly is fake – we all use aliases.”

“What a shitty alias.”

Ohache made a satisfied sound as the safe clicked open. “Here we go.”

Ohache pulled a duffel bag from their pants pocket and started shoving the meager amount of crisp, strapped bills into it. It definitely was not worth the hassle.

The two of them hauled the money out of the basement and out into the back parking lot of the club, Ohache leading her to a beat-up pickup idling in a corner. They knocked on the window, waking up the snoozing driver with a start. He pointed to the bed, and Ohache and Vacherie tossed the bags of money in the back. With a puff of exhaust, the old diesel ground its way out of the parking lot, leaving the two thieves coughing in his wake.

The two of them stood in back lot, faces lit dramatically by a buzzing yellow fluorescent street light. Snow started to fall, and Vacherie kicked her feet against the cold. A short backless dress was not proper New England winter attire, but her coat was in the car. Ohache was looking out at the road, their breath coming in clouds that drifted through the air.

Vacherie was studying the club’s back door. A different generic bass beat was thumping through the walls. “You wanna make some _more_ money, kid?” she asked.

Ohache’s face snapped back to her, eyes wide in the dim light. “What do you mean?”

Vacherie removed her earrings, and produced a gold and purple bandanna from her purse. It wasn’t her usual fare, but then again, she was tipsy and ill-prepared. She deftly tied the bandanna around her face and pulled on a pair of black leather gloves.

“I feel like hittin’ the dance floor one more time before I go.”

Anxiety gripped Ohache’s chest. “Wh…wait what are you-”

Vacherie grabbed the kid’s arm, eyes glittering. “ _Laissez le bon temps rouler_.”

Vacherie’s side was aching again, but the adrenaline rush helped her ignore it. Bag full of coke slung over one shoulder, she was barking in French at the nightclub manager crouched on the floor while her mysterious partner rifled through a different back room safe, grabbing fistfuls of cash and shoving them in any available pocket. Ohache’s hands were sweating in their gloves; they did not like going this loud, but it didn’t seem they had much of a choice.

The manager weren’t cooperating – apparently an angry French woman in a party dress wasn’t intimidating enough. Vacherie fired the 9mm at the ceiling, busting a light and showering sparks across the floor.

It apparently was too late – Vacherie could already hear sirens in the distance. Goddamn silent alarms.

“Ya fucked up!” she barked, putting a round into the manager’s hand. Outside in the hall, she heard a woman yelp.

“Time to go, my cowardly friend,” she said, grabbing Ohache by the arm and dragging them behind her.

They bolted out of the club through the back, dodging civilians on the way, and ran across the street into an alley just as the red and blue lights turned the corner. The sounds of the police filing into the nightclub rang behind them as Vacherie dragged a near-hyperventilating Ohache down the alley to a pay to park lot on the other side of the block.

Vacherie pulled her keys out of her purse, punching the unlock and trunk open buttons in rapid succession. A black car, hidden in shadow, sprung to life.

Ohache threw themselves in to the passenger seat, slinking down below the windows.

When she was done shoving the bag into the compartment underneath the bed of the trunk, Vacherie joined Ohache in the car, sliding into the red leather driver’s seat and pushing the key into the ignition. The car roared to life, and the two of them pulled out into the street, heading the opposite direction of the halfhearted manhunt that was beginning to spread out away from the nightclub.

The Mustang pulled into the parking lot of a cheap motel somewhere around midnight. The two occupants hopped out; Ohache fished the bags out of the trunk as Vacherie slid the keycard of her hotel room into the door lock. It took two tries before the deadbolt clicked and she was allowed inside.

The room smelled odd, but it had a fridge, and sometimes that’s as much as you can ask from a place like this. Ohache tossed the bags onto the bed before stripping off their gloves and shoes, rubbing their unnatural red hair vigorously.

Vacherie was on the phone with someone, a contact, a buyer, deciding how much they would get paid for the coke. Ohache just watched her, free hand gesturing wildly, accent growing thicker the more riled up she got.

Finally she tossed her phone onto the bed and grinned. “Well I talked ‘em into ninety. Split what’s left in yer pockets with me for savin’ ya ass an’ we’ll call it even.”

Ohache growled inwardly. _Saving me? I wouldn’t need saving if you hadn’t dragged me into a gunfight._ Ohache uinpacked the bag of cash onto the bed, and they quickly split it as evenly as they could – Vacherie having slightly more. For gas money.

“Good ‘nuff,” she said. 

“Now, time to celebrate,” she said, padding to the bathroom counter and returning with a bottle of something that looked extremely alcoholic and two plastic cups. “Maybe we’ll see each other ‘round again.”

She filled one of the cups up for herself then held the bottle out to Ohache, but the kid shook their head and pushed it away. “I’m not old enough to drink.”

Vacherie stared at them. “You jus’ robbed a nightclub – _twice_ – an you ‘ain’t old enough to drink’? You _couillon_?”

Ohache shrugged. “Moral code. Besides, that shit tastes awful.”

Vacherie knocked back the entire cup in one go. “More for me then.”

Morning came, and Vacherie woke Ohache up by nearly drowning herself under the sink, trying to drink from the tap. Halfway through the night she’d gotten drunk enough to lose her initial plastic cup and replaced it with the second, rendering them now both useless.

Ohache slapped her hard on the back, trying to get her to cough up any inhaled water. “That’s what you get for drinking so much.”

Between coughs, Vacherie hissed, “Don’ gimme none o’ your lip, young….” she paused, studying their face. “Man?”

“Neither,” Ohache replied, looking slightly irritated.

Vacherie didn’t really understand, but she felt like she was going to throw up, and wasn’t in the mood for an argument. “Fine. I still don’ want none o’ your lip.”

“What does that…mean, exactly?”

“Ya sass. Ya smart mouth.”

Vacherie pressed a cold towel to her face for a long moment, allowing Ohache a moment to study her without fear of judgement. Last night she’d been wearing a short blonde wig that clashed with her dark olive skin, even under a full face of makeup. Now, her hair was a dark brown, cut straight at her waist, unlayered except for some fringe that framed her face. She was shorter than they were by a few inches or so but they were thinner, her arms muscular enough to lift fifty pounds like it were nothing.

Finally, she pulled the towel away, brushing her hair from her face and walking to the table where her car keys rested.

“So…are you leaving?” Ohache asked, behind her.

“I guess. I gotta job I gotta get to, and not a lotta time to get there.”

“Mind driving me to the airport then?”

“Call a taxi.”

Vacherie couldn’t see Ohache squeeze their eyes shut and breathe out, bracing themselves for the inevitable backlash. “You wouldn’t have anything you’re shoving in your bag if it weren’t for me. The least you can do is take me to the airport.”

She turned around and stared at them, eyes narrowed. Ohache tried not to flinch, visions of raised voices and thrown objects flashing through their head. Or worse, silent disdain.

“Fine,” she said, shrugging. “I control da radio though.”

Ohache did not relax. “Deal.”

Together they reloaded Vacherie’s car, sliding the bags of cash and coke into the compartment underneath the mat of her trunk and the suitcase she’d lived out of for a month into the tiny back seat. Ohache plopped into the passenger side, trying to get comfortable in the unused bucket seat as Vacherie pulled out of the parking lot, eyes hidden by oversized sunglasses. If she’d been asked what they were for, she would blame glare from the sun on last night’s snow.

“So where are you going?” Ohache asked, after several minutes of road noise. “I mean, after we get to the airport.”

“Florida. I actually got a pretty big job there. I been lookin’ forward to it for a while – I need to buy new tires for my car.”

“How much?”

Vacherie eyed them. “What it’s worth.”

“I have a lot of rent due. Take me with you and give me some.”

“Or I could ditch ya an’ keep it all.”

Ohache said nothing. It was a longshot anyway.

After an awkward, anxiety-laden moment, Vacherie finally said, “Seventy-thirty. ‘Cause I like ya hair. Always wanted to be a redhead.”

“You serious?”

“Absolutely. Bought a red wig an’ everythin’ a while back, but I ain’t white enough to pull it off.”

“I meant about working with you,” Ohache said.

“If yer sure ya wanna come, you can come. It’s a long ass drive an’ I ain’t that good of company, but I got a soft spot for lil’ kids who ain’t getting’ paid what they should be. I’ll be good to ya, unlike yer dumbass Shakespeare boss.”

“You keep making fun of his name, but I can barely even say yours!”

“Then call me Vash,” she said, and turned on the radio.


	3. Chapter Three

_January_

“So…Florida.”

“Yep. Still sure ya wanna come with?”

Ohache stared ahead at the highway. “I don’t really have a choice now, do I?”

Vash shrugged. “I mean, I could kick ya otta my car onto da side of I-95.”

The empty expanse of the Virginia forest stretched out on either side of the car. “I’ll pass.”

They drove in silence, the drone of the car’s engine unbroken with not even the radio to drown it out, thanks to them being outside of civilization. It’d been hours since they’d left the hotel, and the awkwardness of the lack of familiarity was becoming painful.

Vash finally got fed up with the sound of the engine and social anxiety. “Ya got anythin’ to listen to besides me breathin’?” She popped open the middle console with one hand. “There’s an auxiliary cable in ‘ere somewhere.”

Ohache fumbled their phone at the sound of her voice, plugging it in with awkward hands. They turned on something female driven and synth-y. Not exactly Vacherie’s cup of tea, but it was something to listen to besides static and stress.

“Ya boss okay with ya comin’ down ‘ere with me, right? I don’ wanna get fucked over by a drug man, even if he do got a stupid name.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Ohache hissed. They quickly snatched up their phone, opening the texting app and typing out a quick message. With everything that had happened, they’d totally forgotten to let Benvolio know they were leaving. To be honest, they were trying to forget on purpose. Benvolio would likely blow a blood vessel, despite the fact that Ohache did the job they were asked to do, but here, in Vacherie’s car, thousands of miles away from Indiana, Ohache didn’t care much. They never quite got to finish their vacation anyway.

The reply came back quickly. _Thanks for telling me my shit got accomplished twelve hours later._

_the stuff got dropped off, had some help. going to florida_

_Help from who?_

Ohache glanced at Vash in the seat next to them. How to explain this benignly? _met a lady in our line of work at the nightclub. helped me get some extra cash. she’s fine_

_Who is she?_ Ohache could hear the strain in the sender’s voice in their mind.

They hesitated for a moment before typing out their reply. 

_vacherie_

\---

“Who the fuck is Vatchree?” Benvolio looked up from his phone to meet the eyes of his bodyguard.

“No clue,” Yorrick replied, shrugging. “Could look on the Net I guess?”

Yorrick didn’t need to ask Benvolio if he wanted him to do so. He’d been with his employer long enough to read even the slightest of signals in Benvolio’s expression.

After a moment of searching, he spun back around. “So she’s with the Net-” he started.

“Obviously,” Benvolio snapped, not looking up from his phone.

Yorrick made a face, but soldiered on. “She’s from Louisiana and makes her living doing tech jobs all over the country.”

“Sounds pretty standard.”

“And apparently she’s kind of a bitch.”

“Also sounds pretty standard.” Benvolio smile to himself, sharp white teeth peeking out from behind his lips.

Yorrick ignored him. “So where are they going? I didn’t think we had any other ghost jobs set up?”

“Florida, apparently,” Benvolio replied. “And we don’t. Looks like the two lovebirds are going on a vacation.” He raked his fingers through the front of his quaff, which bounced back to its original position almost immediately.

Yorrick knew that there weren’t any more jobs in Ohache’s queue, so they weren’t skipping work, but Benvolio was the type of person who needed all the parts of his machine working at maximum optimization at all times. And that meant no unplanned vacations to Florida, even if you don’t have anything coming up, and even if you did get called in from a weekend off in the first place.

“I’ll handle it,” Yorrick interjected, before Benvolio had time to say anything.

Benvolio looked up from his phone, meeting Yorrick’s eyes. “No, _I’m_ gonna handle it. But you’re gonna come with me.”

Ohache didn’t need Benvolio’s particular brand of situation management right now. Any time he tried to handle something, it usually ended up messy, and that meant Yorrick had to clean it up. He didn’t particularly want to be cleaning up a personal friend.

“Do we really need to go all the way to Florida just to intimidate an anxious teenager?”

Benvolio glared at his bodyguard. “Yes.”

“Or are you just looking for an excuse to abuse someone because you’re pissed because you still don’t know where your heroin is, and Ohache is an easy target?”

The gold-plated lighter flipped open. “I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed today, thank you; that’s what my therapist I never go to is for.”

“Ben, just let them go.”

Benvolio met Yorrick’s eyes. “They’re _my_ employee. And if you let one employee go off on an unplanned vacation, everyone else is going to want to. I really don’t care that the kid went to Florida. But I do care about Terry, Antonio, Daisy, and Ilya wandering off to who the fuck knows where when they’re supposed to be doing their goddamn jobs.”

Yorrick relented. He was right. “Just. Go easy on them.”

Benvolio tossed his legs off of the desk, standing up and stretching to his full lanky height. “I make no promises. Now, go home and pack your short sleeves, if I’m going to fly all the way to America’s dickhole, I plan on making a vacation out of it, too.”

\---

“I get da bed by da wall,” Vash announced, dumping her suitcase onto it with flourish. 

“Fine with me, if the world ends I’ll get out of the room faster.” Ohache set their duffel bag down gently.

“Not if I run faster.”

Ohache was indignant. “I’m a ghost; do you really think you can run faster than me?”

“Ya ain’t goin’ nowhere if I shoot ya first.”

Her face showed no emotion as she turned away from Ohache, walking towards the other side of the room. They weren’t sure how to take that comment. Was she serious? She probably was serious.

Vash tossed her suitcase into a corner, unzipping it and leaving it open. There was no point in unpacking it – they’d be leaving in a couple days again anyway. With a stretch she flopped onto the hotel bed, fingertips brushing the headboard, a little trilling sound escaping from her throat.

Ohache sat on the edge of the bed, phone in their hand, trying to process the fact that they were actually here, in this hotel room. Typically after a job they just went home, or to the next location to start all over again. They’d never done anything like this before, and they would be lying if they said they weren’t a little scared. They’d never been to Florida, and the common opinion from the Internet is that the entire state is a godless hellhole waiting to kill everyone who visits.

_Oh my god, you’re stuck in a hostile state you’ve never been to with a woman you don’t know in a hotel room with nowhere to go and nothing to do. This is a horror movie situation and you know it._

Ohache stared at the woman lying on the opposing bed, spread-eagle in torn jeans and a tank top. Yesterday she was blonde, with a bob cut. Today, her hair was long and brown. They were confident that later, when she pulled on her work clothes, her hair would change again. Maybe this time she’d try red one more time.

_She could kill you and nobody would know who did it, because she changes faces as part of getting dressed in the morning._

Silently Ohache sat on the bed, staring at the phone in their hands, trying to calm down. _You could get a bus, suffer through the three days’ drive back home, you could take a bus to the airport, you could get out of this, you could leave._

“Ya ready to finally get some real money?”

Ohache looked up at Vacherie lying on the bed. She was smiling, ever so slightly, looking up at the ceiling.

“Do a good job an’ I might give ya a bit more n’ we agreed on.”

Ohache’s head screamed no, but, to their horror, their mouth said, “Sure.”

\---

Ohache handed the ID card to the stone-faced guard at the gate with shaking hands, a stark contrast to Vash’s bored face as she waited. The guard scrutinized the cards slowly, looking up, then back at the card at least twice, and Ohache was certain they were going to pass out. Vash had gotten that ID made in less than twelve hours, and there was no way it wasn’t going to be obvious it was fake.

The guard handed the cards back. “Enjoy your visit to the base.”

The gate arm swung up, and Vash eased her car through.

“I cannot believe that worked,” Ohache said, releasing the breath they’d been holding.

“Ya worry too much,” she replied, pulling into a spot in the parking lot. “Now, get ya shit an’ let’s go.”

Ohache felt uncomfortable walking through the metal detectors into the Air Force base with civilian clothes and little else. They felt naked, exposed. For fuck’s sake, they were walking into a United States military hangar with nothing but a notebook with a crudely drawn map and an iPad.

Underneath her aviator sunglasses and stone face Vash was also nervous. Without Kevlar under her shirt she felt vulnerable. Usually she had the biggest guns in any given area she was in. Today, she had a pistol licensed in her real name in the glove compartment, and if anything went wrong, the Air Force would be on her in seconds. She didn’t like it, but if this worked, she would go home with her pockets more full than they’d been in a long time.

As they approached the barracks, a man in a military uniform greeted them at the gate. Vash waved, just in case anyone was watching them from the cameras no doubt littering the base.

“Who is this?” The soldier nodded toward Ohache when they reached one another.

“A lil temporary partner.” Vash replied.

The soldier looked Ohache over. “Never seen him before.”

“I-I’m not-“ Ohache stammered.

Vash interrupted. “Does it matter, Julian? I trust ‘em, so jus’ lemme in where I wanna go. I ain’t come here to sweat an’ have ya scrutinize my choice of company.”

Julian gave her a sour look, but opened the door to his dormitory anyway. It was tiny, as to be expected, sparsely furnished and sparkling clean.

Ohache caught both themself and Vash checking corners for cameras.

“The room’s safe, not that you’d trust me, but whatever. Gimme your tablet.” He held out a hand to Vash.

“For what?” Her voice had lowered, and she was stepping away from Julian.

“To put the fucking hack on it, what the fuck else?”

“I don’t appreciate ya tone,” Vash hissed.

Julian gave her a cocky smile. “Too bad. Do you want the hack or not?”

Begrudgingly, Vash handed over the tablet. Julian took it, hooking it up to his laptop, starting the download.

“So, you’re gonna wanna go to hangar three. I’ll give you a key so you don’t have to blow it up. I’m guessing you know what to do once you get there?” Julian met Vash’s eyes.

She didn’t reply.

“Anyway. I know it’s inconvenient because your car’s here or whatever – and by the way I hope for your sake you got some legal plates for it – but you’re gonna take the Talon to D.C. and drop it off.”

“Yes, Julian, I’m aware of what my job is. Can we please stop talkin’ about it loud enough for everyone ta fuckin’ hear?” Vash was tapping a finger against her arm, obviously on edge.

Julian rolled his eyes, but was prevented from making another smart remark by the computer alerting him that the transfer was complete. After a few seconds to install the app, Julian handed Vash the tablet.

“You ready?” He grinned, looking from Vash to Ohache.

“So we’re picking up a…talon? Like, a claw? At an Air Force base?” Ohache was confused. They didn’t know much about military affairs, but they were pretty sure falconry wasn’t a common practice.

“No, dipshit, you’re picking up this.” With a flourish, Julian pushed open the huge hangar door, revealing the dormant form of a massive black airplane. “A Lockheed MC-130 Combat Talon I, officially retired in April of 2013, one of the military’s finest bombers. All loaded up and ready to deliver.”

Ohache crossed their arms. “That is the stupidest plane I have ever seen.”

Vash had to agree. She expected a military plane to be sleek, fast, and sexy, but this looked like the bastard child of a biplane and a duck. It was short, fat, and low to the ground. Who on earth would want one of these? Why didn’t they ask her to steal a B-17 or something cool?

“Ugly or not, dis what we here for. Ya said it’s loaded already?” She looked to Julian.

“Yep, loaded, armed, and packed full. A huge job, by the way, just in case you didn’t know. I almost got caught like five tim-“

Vash stomped Julian’s toe, not surprised that he had on steel-toed boots. Nonetheless, he got the picture and stopped talking.

“Just…shut up an’ get outta here before someone sees ya,” Vash hissed. “Remember da rest of ya job from here on out, okay?”

Julian gave her a venomous grin. “Yeah, sure babe, whatever you say.”

Vash rolled her eyes and let herself into the plane with Julian’s key.

The cockpit was indecipherable. She wasn’t a pilot – hell she hardly ever even flew in planes as a passenger. She much preferred her feet on Terra Firma where they belonged. Luckily, her knowing how to use all this equipment didn’t matter. Julian’s hack was supposed to do everything she needed without Vash having to ever touch the throttle.

Ohache slid into the co-pilot’s seat, staring at the instruments in front of them as Vash plugged the tablet into the plane’s computer.

After a few moments, the tablet confirmed that the software was downloaded. Vash pulled out her notebook, looking at her notes, flipping switches and pressing buttons in succession. “This is fuckin’ ridiculous,” she muttered. “They could at least _try_ ta make dis less complicated.”

The plane roared to life, and Vash slowly inched it out of the hangar, lightly tapping the flight yoke to steer the massive craft toward the runway.

A radio on the dashboard crackled to life. “I got you covered at ground control, by the way. Since you didn’t ask. Or obviously think about it. You can thank me later.”

Vash groaned, focusing on pointing this plane in the direction it needed to be.

Next to her, Ohache was strapping themselves in the co-pilot’s seat.

She shot them a grin. “Ya ready ta fly, kid?”

Ohache seemed oddly calm. “Yes.”

“Good, ‘cause I sure fuckin’ ain’t.” Vash slid her finger across the tablet screen, and the plane screamed as the engines kicked into gear, the propellers beginning to hum. It steadily inched forward, faster and faster, and Vash felt her heart slowly rise into her throat. She hated flying.

The radio crackled again, this time a different voice. “Hey, where are you going?”

Her heart jumped as the nose of the plane tipped up toward the sky, and the voice in the radio began listing off commands to other people on the base, someone find out where that plane was going, who approved that? 

Julian had better do his fucking job.

\---

It was about an hour into the flight when things started going wrong. Vash had engaged the autopilot, pointed toward the drop point, and they’d been cruising smoothly. Ohache had dozed off in the seat, and she was bored out of her mind. There was no radio in the plane, and her silence was deafening. No longer needing her tablet, she’d unplugged it, and started playing a mobile game to distract her from the fact that she was in essentially a tin can screaming through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour.

She was begrudgingly beating her previous high score when she felt her stomach drop. Immediately her head snapped up, scanning the dials on the cockpit dashboard, so steady moments before, were now moving wildly. The engines were loud, shaking the entire plane, but there was the sensation of taking ones foot off of the gas pedal of a car. Her eyes moved from the dash to the window, and her stomach dropped further as she saw the horizon was no longer where it should have been.

The plane was falling.

She had no notes for this. She knew nothing about how to fly a plane. They were miles above the ground over a neighbourhood in who knows what state, in a fucking military bomber, loaded to the brim with illegal explosives and god knows what else.

Vash panicked. She sat in the pilot’s seat, staring out the window as the plane continued its slow descent, knowing that within moments it would nose down and start spinning. 

Beside her, Ohache stirred, slowly regaining consciousness. This kid she didn’t even know was going down with her, and the only reason they were here is because she got bored and ruined their job. All of what, nineteen? Twenty? They had their whole life ahead of them.

Ohache’s eyes opened lazily, their face red with sleep. “Where are we?” they asked, looking up at Vash.

Then they saw her face, pale, eyes dilated, knuckles white as she gripped the bottom of the pilot’s seat. They sat up, suddenly very alert. “What’s wrong?”

It didn’t take long to figure it out.

Vash looked like she was about to cry. “I dunno what happened, it jus’ started dropping.”

The plane was tipping faster.

“I don’t know how to fly a plane an’ my tablet doesn’t have instructions for dis.” Her voice increased in pitch. “Sorry I got ya into all this shit. Ya might wanna go pray or whatever.”

Ohache stared at her for a brief moment, then they turned to the control panels in front of them, eyes flicking across the dials and buttons. Without saying a word, they gripped the control wheel, flipping switches like they knew what they were looking at.

“Disengage the autopilot,” Ohache said calmly.

“What?”

“Turn off the autopilot!”

Vash fumbled with her tablet, fingers shaking as she brought up the dashboard guide. She finally found the correct switch and flipped it off.

Ohache’s face was drawn and serious, concentrating on the indecipherable gauges and lights spread across the dashboard, absorbing the information they told, gently tipping the plane’s awkward-looking nose into a more horizontal position.

The engines stopped screaming. Vash’s stomach settled. And she released the death grip she didn’t realize she had on the side of the pilot’s seat. 

\---

“Oh, look, they made it.” Benvolio was standing on the runway, gazing up at the sky from behind dark sunglasses, wearing a black driving coat despite the temperature being in the mid-seventies.

Beside him, Yorrick sipped a soda, paying attention to the area around his employer, pushing blonde curls away from his face in a vain attempt to keep them under control in the wind. “You probably shouldn’t have done that, Ben.” Understatement of the year. Behind his stone face, Yorrick was steaming.

Benvolio laughed aloud. “Please, it wasn’t gonna fall all the way down. Just enough to scare ‘em.”

_That doesn’t make it any better,_ Yorrick thought, but kept his mouth shut.

The plane touched down smoothly, rolling to a stop in front of Yorrick and Benvolio.

Inside the cockpit, Ohache’s eyes were wide staring out of the window, knuckles white on the plane’s control stick. “He isn’t supposed to be here.”

“Who?” Vash asked, leaning over the dashboard to try and make out the faces of the two men standing below them.

“Benvolio.”

Cautiously, Ohache slid out of the door of the plane, dropping silently to the tarmac on ghost’s feet. Vash jumped down after, her shoes slapping the pavement, shockwaves climbing up her shins. She began walking immediately, and Ohache hung behind her, just a step. Another wall between them and Benvolio’s gun.

Benvolio lit a cigarette. “So, you made it here in one piece, eh kid?”

Ohache said nothing.

Vash looked up into Benvolio’s face, then further up into Yorrick’s. A bit of an odd pair, but hey, she didn’t judge people’s choices when she just stole an airplane.

“Heard a lot about ya on the way over, Benny,” she said, a hand on one hip.

“And I’ve heard nothing about you, Vacherie,” Benvolio replied, meeting her eyes.

“So whatcha doin’ ‘ere, huh? I thought ya were in Indianapolis, sellin’ drugs or somethin’ like that. Not creepin’ around airports in D.C.”

Benvolio smiled a vampire’s smile. “Just wanted to make sure my favourite employee is alive and well, that’s all.”

Behind Vash, Ohache made a face. “How did you know what we were doing, though?”

“I know everything you do, kid. I know that you didn’t finish your last job and ran off with a broad who showed you a good time and you never called home to let me know you were okay.” He drilled Ohache with his dark eyes, the stare obvious even behind the shades. “I was worried sick about you, out there with a stranger well past your curfew. You know I think of all my little employees like my kids, and just like any dad, I like knowing where you guys are, and who you’re hanging out with. It’s a dangerous world out there. A guy could get killed.”

Ohache shoved their hands into their pockets. “I didn’t really have a chance to call-“

“Oh I’m sure you have a good excuse; teenagers always do. I had a feeling you’d try to get out of your responsibilities, so that’s why I grounded you.”

The words slid into place in Ohache’s head. “You…bugged the autopilot.”

Vash lunged for Benvolio, but was blocked by Yorrick, who grabbed her deftly by the elbows and twisted her arms behind her back. She struggled, more for show than with any hope to free herself.

“You fuckin’ _asshole_ , do ya realize that ya almost killed us?” Her nails dug into Yorrick’s hands.

Benvolio took another drag on his cigarette. “The hack was programmed to go back to normal operation once the plane reached a certain altitude, at which point the autopilot would re-engage and level it off.”

“I cannot _believe_ you.” Her eyes burned like fire.

Benvolio turned back to Ohache. “So please, darling, try to call home next time, or the plane might fall all the way down. And _I_ won’t come looking for your broken, smoldering remains.” He gave Ohache a vampire’s smile. “There’s a good kid.”

He turned to leave, walking back towards a long black car parked nearby. Yorrick released Vash, and nodded to Ohache to follow him. Ohache followed, eyes to their feet.

Vash stepped forward, grabbing their hand. “Yer not seriously goin’ with him after dat?”

Ohache looked up at her and shrugged sadly. “He’s my boss, I kinda have to go.”

“This fuckass jus’ tried ta fuckin’ _kill_ ya to teach ya a lesson – an’ now yer gonna walk right into his car an’ let him take ya away?” Vash didn’t know if she was angrier for her or them.

“What else am I supposed to do? When I fuck up, I get punished. That’s how it works.”

“There’s a big fuckin’ difference between spankin’ a kid an’ tryna kill ‘em.”

“Well they always said the north and south were worlds apart.”

“You could always leave,” Vash replied.

Ohache hissed. “Sure, I’ll just leave a _cartel_. Let me give in my two weeks’ notice and I’ll finish up what’s in my queue and head off to greener pastures. Just make sure to sign that NDA to make sure I don’t sell company secrets!” They waved their hands dramatically. “Yeah. No. That’s not happening. I signed a contract. I’m here for life.”

Ohache turned away from her, walking toward the waiting limo.

Vash watched them leave, frustration eating a hole in her chest. “Well, ya know where ta find me if ya ever change yer mind.”

Ohache opened the back door of the limo themselves, silently falling into the polished leather seats.

Benvolio flicked the remainder of the cigarette he’d been smoking out the window. “Where’s your gear?”

“At Vash’s hotel. In Florida. We had to leave everything there when we went to the base. Someone was going to send our stuff back to us once we landed.”

He studied his perfectly manicured nails. “Guess _I’ll_ have to make sure you get that back.”

Ohache mumbled a response, but nobody acknowledged it.

“So how much did she say she’d pay you?” Benvolio turned to look at the person curled up in the back seat.

“Thirty percent of what she got.”

“Which was?”

“I don’t know; she didn’t get it yet.”

“Did you do anything?”

Ohache met Benvolio’s eyes, sarcasm tainting their words. “I flew the plane after you tried to kill us.”

Benvolio smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “I forgot you could do that.” 

He inhaled audibly, leaning forward in his seat, rummaging through something by his feet. After a moment, he sat up, tossing a bundle of money into Ohache’s lap.

“For the nightclub.”

Ohache thumbed the bills, counting it quickly in their head. It really was not worth it.

Ohache sat silently as Benvolio’s Lear jet touched down on Indiana International’s private runway, and silently still they sat as Yorrick pulled Benvolio’s limo (the one he actually owned, not a rental,) onto the tarmac, and still silently they sat as the car wove its way through the capital city streets.

Yorrick punched in the gate code to Ohache’s apartment complex from memory and drove through to their unit, ignoring Benvolio’s incessant bitching about time and schedules.

Silently Ohache slid out of the limo, tucking the cash into their jacket. They shoved their hand in their pockets, fishing for keys. And of course their keys were in their backpack.

Sighing deeply from the pit of their being, Ohache tapped on the driver’s side window, waiting for Yorrick to roll it down.

“My keys are in Florida.”

Yorrick pulled an overladen keyring out of his pocket and tossed it out to Ohache. “It’s the one with the blue thing around it.”

“Thanks.”

They found the right key easily, thanks to Yorrick’s impeccable organization skills, but they still pretended to fumble with the lock, eyes checking the corners as they pulled up a security app on their phone. The apartments were hardly high-end, riddled with foundation cracks and broken gutters spewing snowmelt across the crumbling brick walls, staining the clay black and green. But it was cheap, and when you rent at least six of them across the city, cheap is important.

Ohache’s unit stood in a block of perfect copies. Nice neighbours, but Ohache hardly knew them. Hopping all over the country on jobs aside, they hardly spent more than a couple days in each apartment at a time. It wasn’t really good for socializing.

The cameras were clear, but that didn’t mean much. Wiretaps were cheap and easy. Ohache knew. They’d planted a few.

Cautiously, they turned the key, ready to run should anything other than absolutely nothing happen.

Nothing happened. Ohache nearly cried.

Quickly they checked the hiding spots, but found nothing but a couple dead beetles in a corner, casualties of a recent pest control visit. It was good enough for right now.

They were mildly surprised to see the limo still parked outside, albeit with a cloud emitting from one side. The plane ride must have been killing him.

Yorrick held out a hand and Ohache tossed the keyring back to him.

“Hey, I called Vacherie, by the way,” he said.

Ohache met his eyes.

“I gave her your address. I know it’s not your only one, so I figured it was okay.”

“It’s fine,” Ohache said. “Thanks.”

_Well, at least the lease runs out on this one in a couple month,_ Ohache thought. _We’ll just take it off of the “Places I Will Sleep” list until then._

The sound of the car pulling away over speedbumps was the last thing Ohache heard before they locked themselves into the now-tainted apartment.

The place was freezing – it’d been a few months since they’d holed up here and the air had been turned off the entire time. They kept their jacket on, but tossed the money onto the kitchen counter on their way to the thermostat, ignoring the dust billowing up around it. The long-neglected heater banged to life, beginning its eternal struggle to keep warmth inside the crumbling walls of the apartment. 

The only furniture was found in the pre-determined bedroom: a simple, cheap bookshelf, and a vaguely uncomfortable mattress on a thrift store frame. All the decorations in the room could easily be fit into a backpack, or easily forgotten. The most prominent was a canine skull, on a shelf an arm’s reach away from the bed.

“So, Mr. Coyote, how was it while I was away?” Ohache asked the skull on the shelf as they lay down, fully clothed. Not to their surprise, it remained silent. They rolled over, sighing deeply. “Good talk.”

Terrified of being followed, each apartment was similarly empty. Bare necessities and a small stash of cash to keep them afloat, but not compromise their entire wealth should someone catch wind of their occupation and seek out a piece of it for themselves. There were alarm systems in each one, far more advanced than any normal home security system on the market, hand installed and designed by Ohache themselves. If any alarms were activated out of range of Ohache’s device, it automatically called the police, as well as alerted Ohache. Nothing had been broken into yet, but nasty surprises weren’t exactly Ohache’s cup of tea. Remembering to check the status reports, they pulled out their phone.

No notifications from any of the other apartments.

The sun was setting, shining light through the shitty mini blinds; the incredible amounts of dust making the emptiness seem almost magical. There was just one more thing to do before they could take a shower and try to sleep.

“Hey mom, just letting you know I’m back in Indianapolis. I don’t know if I’ll be able to come back but I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. Talk to you later. Love you.”

They dropped the phone on the floor next to the mattress they were laying on, never quite making it to the shower before passing out into a fitful sleep.

It was around noon the next day when Ohache was startled awake by something heavy hitting their front door and a quick, loud knock. They remained in bed for several minutes, frozen in place, before finally peeling themselves from underneath the thin blanket and creeping their way through the living room to the door.

There were no cameras outside (much to Ohache’s chagrin, but the complex had rules about that apparently,) so they had to make do with looking through the peephole and a tight grip on the utility knife they snatched from a kitchen drawer.

Cautiously they pushed open the door, jumping a little as it bumped against a large box that had been so carelessly tossed on the mat. The package was retrieved quickly and dragged inside, and Ohache sat in the doorway to cut open the cardboard and investigate.

They stopped short, however, when they realized that the box was completely unmarked and had no address label on it at all.

Probably a bomb. Or anthrax. Or maybe it’s just full of venomous snakes that are really pissed about being thrown around.

Either way, Ohache wasn’t about to open it without it being scanned. Unfortunately, the only person they knew with an x-ray scanner was Benvolio, and going to the office was the absolute last thing Ohache wanted to do on their day off, especially after yesterday. They’d have to either carry this huge, heavy box all the way to the office, or take an Uber and risk it exploding some innocent person’s car. Neither option sounded terribly appealing.

They shoved the box across the smooth hardwood floor of the living room with their foot, toward the locked sliding glass door that led out to the balcony. If it exploded, hopefully it wouldn’t be too damaging out there. The neighbours were at work, and the apartment below them, last time they checked, was empty.

The door required some shaking in order to loosen the snow and spiders that had built up against the doors, but they managed to get it open and the box eased up over the door rails and onto the concrete of the balcony. Ohache flicked open the utility knife and sliced across the heavy tape holding the box together.

Gingerly, Ohache pulled open the top of the box, waiting for an explosion, a puff of diseased powder, or an eruption of snakes and scorpions. Instead, they smelled nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing attach itself to their arm. When they opened their eyes and released their breath, they looked in and saw their backpack, keys stuffed into a side pocket. Nestled alongside the backpack, seemingly as packing material, was a small duffel bag.

Ohache knew that type of bag. Nobody ever used that kind of bag but people in their line of work, and the only thing they ever put in it was cash.

There was a note pinned to the bag next to the zipper: “ _Lagniappe_.”

And indeed, it was cash – what was promised to them, and a little extra, pristinely bundled and arranged inside the bag. The bills were so crisp, most people would be tempted to open one of the bundles and hold it to the light, but Ohache was feeling the anxiety prickle in their chest. This was a lot of money, even for them. They never kept this much money in one place at one time, and this wasn’t even money they were supposed to have in the first place. There was nothing in their contract that said they couldn’t take side jobs, but they still felt like a child hiding a secret from their parents.

They threw the bag of money into a corner like it was on fire, pacing the empty living room, trying to decide what they were supposed to do with it. The money they did have stashed around Indianapolis had been accumulated slowly over time. They’d never had to divide any sum this large before. They’d have to spread the move out over several months so it didn’t look suspicious to the banks or to Benvolio, and it would have to be a very intricate process to throw off anyone else following them, and-

Their phone chimed loudly from the floor of the bedroom, breaking Ohache out of their loop.

It was from an unknown number, but they had a sneaking suspicion that it was someone from Vash’s circles.

_Big job in Columbus next month. Saw it was close to you so I’m passing it your way. Payout is p big, but there might be shooting._

They looked from their phone to the bag of cash in the corner of their living room. Sixty grand was almost as much as what was in that bag. Enough money to make them panic. Imagine if they had that regularly.

They weren’t entirely sure they could handle it.

But they replied to the text anyway.

\---

Vash touched down at Lafayette Regional at seven in the morning, and she was exhausted. Most people sleep on planes to pass the time, but the only way she was going to was if drugs were involved, and they try to do a really good job of making sure you don’t have any of those when you go through TSA. The bus to take her home could not come fast enough.

The house was dark when she pushed open the door, and silence greeted her as she stepped inside. The housekeeper had done a good job keeping the place dust-free, but the heating had been turned off for god knew how long, and the entire building was an ice chest. Vash tossed a couple logs in the fireplace and turned the gas up, trying to bring some warmth to the room.

Vash heard the bedroom door creak open, and she was soon greeted by a longhaired calico cat, purring and rubbing on her leg.

“Hey Matty,” she said softly, sitting down on the floor and letting the cat curl up in her lap.

Her other cat, a similar-looking but shorthaired calico, came wandering out of the woodworks and mewed a greeting, then padded into the kitchen, obviously letting Vash know that she was ready for breakfast. She filled their bowls and shoved a bagel in her mouth before dragging her bag of earnings into the spare room.

The room had been a junk room since Vash bought the house, and it was starting to get out of control. Stacks of paraphernalia rose almost as tall as Vash herself, covering the floor. Paths were cut through the junk, leading to the gun safe where Vash kept her firearms and a little bit of her money. If anyone broke in that’d be the first place they went, and if she kept a few thousand in that safe along with her guns, nobody would go looking for the vault under the living room that housed her millions.

She didn’t even know what was even in these piles anymore. Most of it was boxes from when she moved in – paintings and knick-knacks she never hung up. Maybe she should; she’d bought this house four years ago and it still didn’t feel like home, though part of her knew that no number of expensive paintings or crystal figurines could bring light to this old squeaky pile of boards she slept in. The only warmth she felt here was her cats.

“Why do I still have dis place?” she asked herself as she sat on the floor and cleaned her gun. “You two could get used ta travelin’ for sure. No sense in havin’ all dis shit takin’ up space. It could jus’ be me an’ you two, an’ da open road. We could sing songs, play games, you can laugh at me when I get drunk…it’ll be fun.”

The cats blinked at her.

“We coul’ just live outta da suitcases an’ stay at dem extended stay hotels. Just us three.”

The cats closed their eyes.

Vash sighed deeply. “Or we could jus’ stay here an’ be miserable.” She put her pistol in the gun safe and locked it.

She considered taking care of the money still in her bag, but put it off til she’d had a bit more sleep. Her bed was cold, but she didn’t care anymore. She just wanted some rest.


	4. Chapter Four

_February_

When Ohache stepped into O’Hare for their red-eye flight, the airport was nearly empty, the sound of their footsteps echoing on the gray quartz tile floor more unsettling than they expected. Not that they particularly minded; security took seconds to pass through as compared to what felt like hours at a more reasonable hour. It probably helped that their bugout pack contained nothing sketchier than a pack of lock picks, hidden in plain sight amongst a full nail care kit. They were flagged, but the TSA officer simply removed a pair of nail clippers and tossed them into the bin.

“Against policy,” the stone-faced officer droned, waving Ohache through the scanner again.

“Aw, seriously? What am I gonna do, break into the cockpit with ‘em?” Ohache laughed, plucking their back from the conveyor belt. The officer sent them a look.

“Policy, sir. I’m sure your manicure will last a flight,” she said, dismissing Ohache with a wave of her hand.

They scowled, fighting back the urge to correct her pronoun use, but let it slide. _At least she didn’t call me ma’am and give me a pat-down._

Their gate was relatively nearby, but felt like an eternity as Ohache walked through long, quiet hallways. There were only a few other flights going out of their terminal, and there was no way they would be full. 

_Topeka, Kansas, departing at 04:14._ There was an old man and a frazzled looking lady, sitting as far away from one another as the rows of chairs would permit. 

_Miami, Florida, departing at 03:40._ A small, shrieking child and his parents standing in the boarding line. Overhearing something about _Frozen_ and Disney World, Ohache shuddered and walked quickly away.

 _New Orleans, Louisiana, departing at 06:18. T_ hey could’ve sworn they saw someone familiar sitting in the terminal, a laptop on their knees. They looked up at the sound of a security PSA announcement, tucking hair behind an ear with far too many rings in it. 

_Columbus, Ohio, departing 04:36._ That was their gate.

The flight boarded about thirty minutes after they arrived, and only a third of the plane was filled. It was unsettling, but it meant they didn’t have to sit next to anyone, so Ohache pressed themselves happily into the window seat propping their feet up across the entire row, napping luxuriously the entire hour and a half flight to Ohio.

\---

Vash had never noticed how quiet her house was before. The creak of every board in the ancient floor, the sound of every mouse scuffling in the walls, the drone of every car as it drove across the nearby drawbridge was louder than they’d ever been. It always felt weird to come home after being on the road for jobs, but this time, for the first time, she realized that she missed conversation. Having someone to talk to.

Her employer had shipped her car back to her the night before, and she kept catching glances of it out of the living room windows as she paced. She finally got fed up with the silence, filled up the cats’ bowls, got back into her car, and hit the road to New Orleans. Surely something there would entertain her. It was about the fun time of year, anyway.

No casino turns down paying gamblers, but Vash stopped at a gas station and changed anyway, from jeans and a t-shirt to a black and gold knee-length dress and diamond earrings that she had to force through the nearly-closed holes of her ears.

Harrah’s was wild, as to be expected on a Friday night in February. Cheap beads and strings of pearls adorned everyone’s throats, and Vash felt a little naked handing her ID card to the security guard bare necked. She never really was one to wear jewelry; it only ever got in the way. The earrings existed only because people expected them to, but she only ever wore studs. Maybe after a few drinks she’d loosen up enough to show enough leg to get someone to throw her some beads.

Four glasses down and she finally felt steady enough sliding into a chair at the blackjack table and slapping a stack of hundreds into the dealer’s hands. Ten minutes later she walked away with twenty more than she started with.

She was waiting for her drink at the bar when she felt her phone buzz in her handbag.

_Heard you were at Harrah’s tonight. Wanna make some money while you’re in the area?_

Vash looked up and into the corners, looking for the cameras. She didn’t spot any, but she knew they were there, tiny, hidden, and tapped by the criminal network known as the Net – her employer. She glared in the direction of a particularly dark corner of the vaulted casino ceiling, hoping he could see her.

 _Depends on what it is,_ she replied.

_Nothing quite so glamorous as where you’re at, but I’ll pay enough to make it worth it._

She stared at the phone, contemplating the number amount that followed.

We’ll, it’d definitely be something to do.

The third-rate casino owner’s office was up a private elevator to the top floor, which served as his penthouse of sorts, though it didn’t look to Vash like he lived there. Posing as one of the owner’s many mistresses, the staff let her up, and she was free to pad about the place alone. It didn’t take long to find what she was looking for, a huge gold-plated safe. Very humble.

“Are ya sure dis what I’m lookin’ for? A gold safe?” She said into her headset.

“Yes, I’m positive. You would think this would be a decoy, being so gaudy, but I have proof that it’s real,” the voice in her headset replied.

_I’ll be surprised if it is,_ she thought.

Vash wasn’t good at delicate work, passing up the lockpicks in favour of the small hand drill she pulled out of the false bottom of the hefty purse she’d replaced the handbag with. She screwed the bit in and set to work, gritting her teeth against the sound of steel chewing through lead. As she carefully input the combination, peering through the hole she drilled to see the mechanism, she quietly thanked the saints that the owner of this casino was stupid enough not to put any guards in his penthouse. Drilling a safe was hardly a quiet procedure, no matter how many technologically advanced drills and bits she purchased.

The lock clicked into place, and Vash held her breath as she opened it.

Inside was a treasure trove of money and drugs, but the ear-shattering siren was distracting from the satisfaction of a job well done.

“Thanks for lettin’ me know about dat, shitbag!” Vash hissed into her headset, cursing the fact that she couldn’t get a gun into the casino. There’d be security here any second.

Well, she wasn’t leaving here empty-handed, so she grabbed as much out of the safe as she could carry, shoving it all in her purse.

She heard footsteps outside, and quickly, using the drill, smashed a window, ripped her gloves off, then threw herself on the ground a few feet away.

“I was up here to meet mista’ Hebert an’ some guy grabbed me an’ threatened to hurt me if I made any noise,” she said through false tears to the security guards who were helping her to her feet.

“Did you see where he went?” A guard asked. Good, too stupid to even think that a woman could have been the culprit.

“Nah, I was facin’ the wall and he told me not to turn around,” she said, turning up the tears, heavy eyeliner and mascara running down her face, hopefully obscuring her features enough to render her unrecognizable later after the wig came off.

“Let’s have a look in ya’ purse anyway just to make sure,” he said, reaching for her bag.

Vash jammed the palm of her hand into the guard’s nose, a fountain of blood spewing from his nostrils. He dropped to the floor, and his partner reached for his gun, eyes wide. Vash put a hand in her purse, staring him right in the eye.

“I wouldn’ do dat if I were you,” she said, her voice low and threatening.

The guard ignored her threat, and continued reaching for the pistol at his side.

She dropped the bluff, ducking to the ground as the gun went off, slicing a gash in Vacherie’s upper arm and shattering some ceramic knick-knack on the floor behind her. She dove for the unconscious man on the ground, snatching his handgun out of his belt and levelling it at his partner.

“Get down.”

The wound in her arm was welling up with blood, and if she didn’t get out of there soon she would be leaving serious DNA all over the crime scene. By now the police had been alerted, and she had maybe five minutes to get the fuck out.

“Sorry _cher_ ,” she said, pistol-whipping the guard as hard as she could. He crumpled to the ground, blood oozing from his forehead. He’d be fine, but he’d have a killer headache when he woke up in twenty minutes.

Vash praised her foresight in bringing additional disposable gloves as she rummaged through the bathroom, trying to find something, anything, to stifle the blood that was running down her arm. She hiked up her dress, undignified as it was, pressing the skirt to the wound to soak up as much as possible. If anything dripped on the floor, she’d be done.

All she managed to find in the two minutes she had available was some duct tape. Well, it’d work. Vash allowed herself a moment of grieving for her $200 dress, then ripped the skirt around the hem. She wrapped the scrap around her arm, tying it as tight as she could. It was good enough.

Now to get out of here.

A stair exit door caught Vash’s eye. That might work. Her resolve wavered at around floor 4 of 7, however, and the heavy loot in her purse was weighing her down.

“C’mon, where’s my ride?” she hissed into the headset.

“The valet has been alerted to the security breach and nobody is allowed to leave right now. You’re gonna have to leave your car for a while.”

“Okay, great, dat ain’t what I was askin’,” Vash replied angrily.

“Oh, right. They’ll be waiting nearby if you can make it out a side door somewhere.”

“Here’s to hopin’ I don’t gotta jump in da fuckin’ bayou,” she said, and pulled the earpiece out.

She bolted through the emergency exit door at the bottom of the stairs to the outdoors, setting off more alarms. She heard shouts behind her, and allowed herself a couple seconds to fire warning shots behind her with the security guard’s gun, the bullets taking chunks out of the brick wall and sending the police ducking behind the doorway. It was only a couple seconds, but it was enough time for her to dart around a corner and throw herself into the passenger seat of the pickup truck waiting for her.

The truck dumped her off somewhere in the middle of the French Quarter, as per the plan. Her arm hurt like fuck, and the quick disposable stitching job she did on it in the bumpy pickup was really doing little more than keeping it from bleeding. Every time she moved her arm the sutures burned like fire on her skin. Everything was painful, her paranoia was in full swing, and she normally didn’t want to be anywhere near this place when the sun went down, but she had to lay low for a while, clean herself up, let the boss get her car back. Again.

She slumped into a café chair and let them bring her coffee and beignets. She was a sight – mascara smudged down her cheeks from crocodile tears, torn party dress, and the truck driver’s windbreaker draped over her shoulders. On any other night she would have been given odd looks by the waiters. Tonight, she was just another weirdo out for Mardi Gras.

Vash took a drink of the coffee before remembering she hated coffee, but the beignets were fried to perfection. She knew better than to inhale while taking a bite, but she could barely breathe at all, and she choked on soft powdered sugar.

“I look awful,” she muttered to nobody. “I _feel_ awful. That job was awful.”

Carefully she looked into her purse, sighing heavily at how little cash she’d been given for what little she’d lifted. A few bags of molly, some cash, a couple necklaces. Nothing much. Enough to fulfil her purpose at letting the casino owner know he needed to pay whatever shark he’d borrowed money from, but not enough to make it worth the injury and stress. That was a ghost job, not a tech one.

_I should have called Ohache,_ she thought. _They’d have known to check for wires._

She left enough money to pay for the coffee and beignets, and wandered the Quarter on foot, gravitating toward the sound of zydeco and cheering. A parade was beginning to start, and the festivities seemed as though they had been in progress for hours. Everyone was drunk, high, or both, and Vash was unable to resist the draw of the lights and the alcohol. She pulled her wig off and let down her hair, raising her glass of bourbon up to a man on a float, and let her voice join so many of the others around her in the chant of “Throw me somethin’ mista!”

\---

“Okay, when you said it might be heavy, you never mentioned like, a hundred soldiers!” Ohache screamed. The headset was simply static, the contact on other lines searching for an extraction team. They took a breath, leaning around the corner to see what they were up against. They cursed as gunshots went off over their head.

The headset crackled, the connection returning. “I’d tell you how many there are if I wasn’t getting my ass shot at!” 

Ohache was quickly losing their composure. The only thing that fueled them this far was confidence in their dodging and hiding abilities, and those were starting to fail. They were exhausted, and the gunfire was getting too close. _Fifty pounds of specialized army equipment will do that to ya,_ they thought bitterly.

“Over here!” An unfamiliar voice called from behind them. _Shit, shit shit._

Ohache was frantic, looking around them. A window to the outside, and the flat roof of the building next to the one they were in. It was about a twenty- foot drop, but it was better than being shot or arrested.

“I need a helicopter on the roof of the building directly cattycorner to mine,” they breathed, opening the window. Their hand gripped the bag over their shoulder. _No fear._

Their confidence was shattered as a gunshot obliterated the window frame inches from their arm, forcing the jump to be more of a fall. Their legs stung as they landed clumsily, sucking air between their teeth, ignoring the pain as they stumbled into a frantic run. They could have cried when the helicopter touched down just in front of them as the guns were leaning over the windowsill.

“In, in, in!” the pilot shouted, waving a hand frantically in Ohache’s direction. 

Gunfire peppered the side of the helicopter as Ohache hauled the bag and themselves inside, slamming the door behind them. The impact shot pain up their arm.

“We’re outta here!” the pilot said into his headset, his voice a little too cheerful for Ohache’s taste. Bullets were still plinking off of the armour plated undercarriage of the chopper.

The pain in their arm wasn’t going away, and they peeled off their jacket, wincing at the sight of a rather large assortment of splinters. They grit their teeth and pulled them out, fresh blood pooling from the holes.

“Any chance you’ve got a medpack in here? Rather not bleed all over your ‘copter,” they asked.

“Uh, back corner. Gauze should be in there. Ain’t got no sutures, sorry,” the pilot told them, voice relaxing into a drawl. 

Ohache pulled open the pack, grimacing when the blood smeared onto the pristine white casing. Applying pressure and wrapping the site, they were thankful the visit to their parents took place before the heist. Even though they didn’t seem like they’d need stitches, the bandages would be hard to explain to mom and dad.

Ohache’s chest tightened. It would be hard to explain to Benvolio too.

They needed somewhere to go.

But first, they should probably find a doctor to pull the rest of this wood out of their arm.

The pulled out their phone, ignoring the alerts of “criminal activity” nearby. As they were pulling up the Net to look for an underground doctor, the Google doodle caught their eye. Festive gold, green, purple, beads, masks. _Happy Mardi Gras!_

“Hey, any idea what marty-grass is?” they asked the pilot. He seemed friendly enough.

“Aw, yeah, it’s this big party they do down in Louisiana. My auntie went on an’ on about it this morning. ” he said, painfully slowly. “Something about Jesus, too.”

“Oh, thanks!” _Louisiana, then?_ They pulled up their messaging app on their phone.

After a few moments of conversation, Ohache tapped the pilot on the shoulder.

“Hey, mind dropping me off at the airport?”

The pilot looked at the clock in the cockpit. Just after six in the morning. “Yeah, shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes now.”

Ohache’s heart jumped in their chest, and they found themselves grinning.

No sleeping in an empty apartment tonight.

\---

Vash’s head was pounding when she finally got home. She didn’t quite get drunk, but someone had popped champagne, and wine gave her headaches like nothing else. The house was still cold and uninviting, despite the heating being on and her having stoked another fire.

She sat on the floor and took off the truck driver’s jacket, hissing at the sight of her wound, red and puffy, barely held together. Gingerly she picked out the sloppy temporary stitches so she could properly clean it. The water from the kitchen sink was cold, and the peroxide burned enough to make her bite her lip so hard she drew blood. When the foam stopped, she braced herself on the counter and pushed the needle into her skin. It was awkward, stitching from this angle, and she knew it wouldn’t be pretty. She wished she knew someone who could this for her, someone with steady hands, who wasn’t exhausted.

When she snipped the twine off of the knot, Vash finally let herself release the tears she’d been biting back, running fresh streaks down her face. This was the advantage of living alone – nobody around to see you cry like a little girl in a party dress.

After she caught her breath, Vash wrapped up her arm in a bandage and dragged herself to the fireplace where she curled up with a blanket she’d grabbed off of the couch. It didn’t matter how high she stoked the fire, it was still cold inside.

She hated this house. She hated every minute she stayed here. It was old and empty, full of junk and half decorated rooms that she didn’t feel like completing. She had hoped it would make her feel more stable after a tumultuous year of not really having a permanent living space, but it never really felt complete. Her godsister kept telling her it would feel less frigid if she’d decorate, but she just couldn’t bring herself to care enough to do it. It just didn’t feel like home.

Vash laughed to herself. What did home even mean anymore? She found it hard to remember having a home. Too much of her life had been cold, empty houses and relationships that went nowhere and ended with her probably needing therapy.

She was tired of it all. She only time she felt alive was when she had a mask on her face, and even then it felt hollow.

In the pocket of the truck driver’s jacket, she heard her phone buzz. Gingerly she crawled across the old wooden floor to get it. A text from a number she didn’t recognize.

_hey its ur fav yank! i heard it was a holiday down there in the south so i hope you had a good whatever it is!_

Her blood froze, just for a second. Ohache.

Vash scuttled over to the fireplace and held the phone out in front of her. She snapped a photo of her mascara-stained face, blood-smeared arm, and the ruined ball gown slumping off one shoulder in the light the fire provided.

_Just your average mardi gras,_ she replied alongside the photo.

_holy shit that looks intense,_ came the almost immediate reply.

_You should come sometime. Give yourself some culture._

_maybe i will. when’s march grass?_

She laughed at the typo. _It means ‘fat Tuesday’ so you tell me._ It was about two in the morning.

_oh shit. see u tomorrow then_

\---

Vash had laughed and shrugged off Ohache’s text as a joke, but when there was a knock at her door around lunchtime the next day, she realized in a panic that they were serious. She scrambled to throw pants on and toss the dishes into the dishwasher and wipe down the sinks before unlatching the door. Her mother was rolling in her grave for sure.

“I bought some stuff in the airport,” Ohache said, walking into Vash’s house like they owned it. “I figured I’d need a shirt that said Mardi Gras on it because, that’s what you do, right? And there was this shirt with that thing on your keyring on it so I got that but I don’t know what ‘Saints’ means? Oh and I bought a mug that had some weird French shit on it. What does this even say?”

Vash couldn’t hide the lopsided grin on her face. “It means ‘let da good times roll,’ an’ hi, welcome to my house, how did ya even know where I live?”

“Oh, I got it from work.” Ohache’s eyes were the picture of innocence. “I just dialed that one number and asked the guy for your address. I told him we were friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yeaaah, like, we did work together and shit, we’re friends. “ Ohache’s voice squeaked like a fourteen year old boy’s. “We are friends, right?”

“Yeah. Sure.”


	5. Chaper Five

_February_

Yorrick pressed his fingers to bridge of his nose, trying his hardest to ignore the sound of his employer’s voice, screeching through the penthouse. Benvolio was all the way upstairs and his voice was making Yorrick’s head pound even here in the living room.

“I don’t understand why I pay all you fucking imbeciles when nothing ever gets fucking done, oh my god!”

Yorrick took a drink out of his soda and pushed back his hair, steeling himself for when Benvolio inevitably barged into the room.

It didn’t take long.

Benvolio laid himself across the back of the couch with a sigh. “Do we have any booze?”

Yorrick pointed to the fridge in the kitchen. Benvolio helped himself to a beer, collapsing into the couch next to Yorrick and taking a long drink.

“This beer’s shit.”

“I can’t afford better beer,” Yorrick replied, not looking up from his laptop, which rested atop his knees.

Benvolio flipped him the bird. “Don’t give me your bullshit, I pay you.”

Yorrick sighed and looked up, giving Benvolio a smile. “So what did Stacey screw up again?”

Benvolio groaned. “I wish it was Stacey, man. I just fucking found out that…what’s his face…the guy with the black hair and a moustache?”

“Carter?”

“Yeah, him. Apparently he _died_ , so that’s why the shipment never came in, which means now Hattie is spitting mad at me, and now I have to deal with all these god damn idiots who don’t know how to do their fucking jobs.” He took another drink from the beer. “I need a vacation.”

“You were just on vacation, Ben.”

Benvolio gave Yorrick a face, but said nothing. Finally he sighed and sat up, running his hand through his unstyled hair. “So long story short, two of my guys are dead and the Cuban has our product. Hattie is going to skin me alive if I can’t get it back before she has to start delivering to the buyers. I’ve gotta get someone in there to get it back.”

“Muscle, or sneaking?” Yorrick raised an eyebrow.

“Either, I guess. Muscle is cheaper. Know anyone?”

“I can ask around,” Yorrick replied. 

“I’ll give you a raise and a trip to Spain if you find me someone within the next week,” Benvolio said dramatically, finishing off his drink. “Also some decent beer. For fuck’s sake, get some better taste. You’re not in college anymore.”

“I never went to college.”

With a loud groan, Benvolio basketball tossed the can into the trash can across the room. “Speaking of which, have you heard from your redheaded stepchild lately?”

Yorrick wasn’t sure how Ohache had anything to do with his nebulous college career, but he didn’t ask questions. “No, why?”

“Just curious.” The tone in Benvolio’s voice was not convincing.

“What happened?”

“Just curious,” Benvolio reiterated, his voice dropping an octave.

Yorrick relented. At least now he had something to do other than looking at cat videos online. Being a bodyguard was only about ten percent actual excitement - the rest was answering the phone and apologizing to anyone Benvolio happened to offend that day. Among other things.

Benvolio gave an exaggerated and not-so-subtle sigh and hauled himself off of the couch. “Next time you talk to ‘em, ask ‘em how their extracurricular activities are going.”

“Their what?”

Benvolio didn’t reply, just walked back upstairs, stairs creaking under his feet.

_What the fuck was that about?_

Yorrick pushed the incident out of his mind, pecking away at his laptop keyboard, scrolling through the profiles of every metal man in their employ. He could hear Benvolio barking at someone on the phone back in his room, his voice loud but illegible. These tirades were happening more and more often, and Yorrick wasn’t sure who was starting it – Benvolio or the employees. The number of sleepless nights were definitely increasing. Maybe it was a little of both.

Yorrick sat his chin in his hand as he clicked through profiles. _Dead, dead, on vacation, in the hospital, his birthday was yesterday so he went to Prague alone to meet his mistress, dead…do we just not have any employees anymore?_

“Multimillion dollar drug cartel and we have seventeen whole metal men,” Yorrick grumbled, marking Carter’s profile as “deceased.” “Guess it’s about time to start recruiting again.”

Maybe there was something in the ghost category. Someone who wasn’t on vacation because apparently the entire month of February was Valentine’s Day.

He flipped through page after page of people who were off wooing some poor girl who just wanted to dance and forget her dad’s an asshole. Ohache was in there too, their slightly panicked profile photo staring back at Yorrick against a plain white wall, two years younger with the same baby face.

They were one of the better ghosts in the company, but this job could end in gunfights – not something Ohache enjoyed. Or could probably handle. He clicked away from their page.

Yorrick sighed and drained the rest of his soda and leaned back into the cushion. There were a few guys here that could get the job done, but…just out of curiosity…

Yorrick opened up the database for the Net in a new browser window. That place was the Etsy of crime – tons of ethically sourced, organic criminals for exorbitant prices, but also a lot of garbage made by children. A good place to find a guy to break into Fort Knox, but also a good place to find redshirts willing to be a meat shield for the guy breaking into Fort Knox.

Yorrick reached for his soda can, frowning in disappointment as he realized it was still empty. He tossed it into the trash can and plodded over to the fridge, looking inside at its scant contents – leftover chicken alfredo (from a restaurant,) some hot dogs, a half-gallon of milk, three sodas, and the six-pack of beer. He grabbed a beer, popping it open, remembering the jab Benvolio gave him about the quality. It was fine beer, maybe not the most expensive local craft beer made by some guy with a beard and size 00 gauges, but fine. He took a sip.

No, Benvolio was right. The beer really did suck.

* * *

Morning came like a spring cold to Vash that morning, the sun drifting through the blackout shades that didn’t get closed all the way. She lay in bed, blanket tucked underneath her chin, her eyes squeezed shut against the light. The world outside was silent, except for a rooster crowing in the distance, encouraging her to start a new day.

She didn’t feel like starting a new day. She felt like going to sleep and not waking up.

A soft white paw under the door reminded her that her life was not entirely her own, and she pulled herself upwards, out of the bed. She was still fully dressed, her mouth dry, her bandaged arm aching. She forgot how she got to bed. Nothing new here.

She pushed the door open, stepping into the living room. It was empty except for the TV mounted on the wall, a table with too many cups of indeterminate ages, and a-

She forced down a screech and pressed herself against the wall, heart pounding in her ears.

Four years ago, she allowed complete strangers in her house to install her panic room. That was the last time she ever had visitors.

One night ago, a nineteen year old child showed up at her doorstep with a suitcase, and made themselves at home on her couch.

She was still not really sure why and how that happened.

“So what is there to do out here? I had to hitchhike from Lafayette because there’s apparently no buses out here, and then I had to walk like two miles through an empty corn field to find your house.”

Ohache sat on the couch, Vash’s only piece of furniture, shoving the remainder of a previously tinned biscuit in their mouth. Vash sat on the floor a few feet away, pondering the legitimacy of Ohache’s eyebrows.

She answered the question by shrugging, wincing as the skin stretched around the stitches in her arm. “It’s sugarcane. And I don’ do much when I’m home, really.”

“What? All this space and you stay in here?” Ohache motioned to the absolute nothingness of Vash’s house and property. They had a point, it was a perfect day outside, and the house was empty and lifeless, even with two cats.

“I ain’t really got nothin’ _to_ do,” Vash said, taking a drink from her glass. “It’s hard ta make friends when yer gone most of the year.”

“There’s not even cool places to go? No waterfalls or hidden gem local pizza places or anything? Interesting museums? Moderately upkept public parks?”

Vash shrugged. “There’s a big church.”

Ohache made a face. “I’m not religious.”

Vash drained her cup and stood up. “Neither am I.”

She walked into the kitchen and refilled it from the bottle on the counter. Bourbon.

“Dis a small town, kid. There ain’t nothing much more here but cane an’ alligators. But it’s safe. Everybody knows everybody, but everybody lives too fuckin’ far apart ta care whatcha do. Just hire ya housekeeper and tell ‘er ya work weird hours an’ nobody asks questions.” She walked back into the living room. “I’m willing ta trade excitement for safety. Besides, I grew up near here, an’ the aesthetic is charming.”

“I can’t believe you live _here_ , though. You have all the places in the world you could live, and you choose the middle of fucking dicks?” Ohache’s eyebrows were even more intense when they were scrunched up.

“Acadiana is unique. Ya don’t get dis vibe anywhere else.”

“I thought this was Louisiana?”

“Never mind.” She took a drink. She finally felt warm inside. “Why can’t ya just sit still and be quiet til the parade tonight?” The question was more of a statement, coming from Vash’s mouth in her flat, deep voice.

“I’m from Chicago, sitting still is not a thing I do.” Ohache grinned. They were quiet for a moment, then spoke again. “So you grew up around here, right? How do you handle family and your…job?”

“I don’t.” Vash’s eyes lost focus, staring through the floor. The cool winter air floated through the open window, blowing wisps of hair around her face.

Ohache followed her gaze. “So you don’t talk to your parents anymore? Don’t they worry about you?”

“My mom is dead an’ my dad ain’t around. My other family never worried a whole lot ‘bout what happened ta me, so I don’t worry too much ‘bout dem now.”

“You don’t see them around here?”

“Nah. They live in another town ‘bout an hour away.” Vash continued to stare at the floor.

A car rolled over the drawbridge, the drone echoing through the open windows. Vash was a thousand miles away, hearing her godsister, the only person she truly cared about, yell at her for leaving without saying anything. She should call her up sometime. 

“Are you okay with me being here?” Ohache finally asked, dragging Vash from her memory back into the present day.

“What?”

“You don’t, like, seem to want company.”

Vash shrugged. “You’re here. I promised ya Mardi Gras.”

“I just don’t want to be an inconvenience-“

“You’re fine.”

Another car drove over the drawbridge. A blackbird screeched in the reeds outside.

“Sorry my place is borin’.”

“Nah, it’s fine.”

Finally, Vash broke the silence. “It’s almost one. Should start gettin’ ready.”

“Okay.”

Ohache stood up stiffly from the couch, looking around for the bathroom.

“Pick a door, da bathroom’s connected ta both rooms.”

They walked into the door that did not lead to Vash’s bedroom.

Vash waited impatiently for Ohache to do whatever it was they were doing in the bathroom. When they finally emerged, they were immaculately dressed in a light gray suit, red hair combed perfectly to one side, cufflinks glinting at their wrists.

She gawked. “Ya…look nice.” The words were an understatement. The disheveled kid in jeans and a t-shirt that woke up on her couch had suddenly turned into the type of person she’d try to take home on a Friday night if relationships weren’t more dangerous than a shotgun with the safety off.

She struggled to find her words. “Ya…might wanna change into what ya had on before though…um, Mardi Gras is…I wouldn’ want ya to…” She hated herself for stammering. “Ya gonna ruin ya suit if ya wear dat. Better put on jeans.”

Ohache’s face fell. “But you had on a party dress in your picture you sent me!”

“’Cause I was robbin’ a casino an’ pretendin’ to be the don’s whore. Notice I ain’t wearin’ nothing special right now.” She had on a deep purple shirt with the same French words on it as the mug Ohache had ‘bought’ at the airport, and jeans with holes in the knees that looked like she’d owned them since she was a teenager. “Also remember I was beaten ta shit in that picture too.”

Ohache grumped back into the bathroom, stripping off the suit and placing it gingerly back onto the hanger. They’d pressed it so perfectly, too.

Being from the North, Ohache had little to offer in the way of culturally appropriate clothing, so instead they chose a black t-shirt with a cat skull printed across the front, and the jeans they slept in that night. Why not.

“Dat’s better,” Vash said with a sideways grin when Ohache emerged again, attempting to cover up the fact that she was still flushed. “Now, ya need these.” She placed a string of beads around Ohache’s neck. They were cheap plastic, in varying shades of purple, gold, and green. “It’s tradition. Like leis in Hawaii. You’ll get plenty more tonight. Oh, an’ bring money.”

“Money?”

“Sure, for da ladies.” Vash grinned, and Ohache didn’t know if they liked the look in her eye.

Suddenly, they were not quite sure they wanted to make the journey into Lafayette anymore.

\---

Ohache and Vash were sitting on the patio of a Japanese restaurant, enjoying dinner on Vash’s wallet as the sun sank beyond the tree line. She’d insisted, despite Ohache’s complaint, to pay for their food, to the point where she removed their money from their person, shoving it into the back pocket of her jeans. “Yer my guest, stop bein’ a rude yankee.” 

Ohache complained, and Vash threatened to toss the roll of bills into the water just beyond the patio railing.

Ohache still felt intoxicated by the atmosphere. The sounds of accordions continued to echo across the city as people celebrated the bizarre holiday, full of glitter, beads, zydeco music, and plenty of women pulling their shirts off to have items tossed down at them from the floats. Vash had little shame, but Ohache was grateful that she at least left her bra on. The intricate fleur-de-lis tattoo on her sternum netted her a string of actual semi-precious stones, and Ohache’s breath had caught in their lungs when Vash tossed it to them with a smile.

The two of them sat across from one another, saying nothing, staring out over the coulee, Vash pounding off another bottle of sake.

“Do you normally drink this much?” Ohache asked.

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

The lights of the city reflected off the water in the coulee as a breeze blew air, just barely cool, through the Spanish moss cascading from the branches of the cypress trees, and Ohache couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen something so atmospheric. Vash was right; this place definitely had a unique feeling.

She had shown them a good time at the parade, but they couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t want them here. She’d barely spoken to them at all, and Ohache felt like they knew just as much about her as they had before they arrived. What happened to the Vash that would banter with them in the car on those long trips south? Weren’t you supposed to grow closer to people when you visited them at home?

Vash broke Ohache’s train of thought by standing up and stretching wide. “Ya ready to head home?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess. “

Vash tossed them a set of keys. “I can give directions. It’s not hard, jus’ go over da bridge ta Rue de Evangeline an’-“

Ohache stared at her, their face pale in the streetlight. “I don’t drive.”

“You _what?_ ”

“I never learned how to drive…I always just took a bus or whatever to work…” They were staring at the keys as though they were a venomous snake.

Vash pressed her palm to her forehead. “You flew a fuckin’ airplane dat was fallin’ out of da sky an’ ya can’t drive a car two blocks down da road.”

Ohache glared at her. “I’m sorry I don’t fit your expectations of the average nineteen year old.”

“No, not…I didn’ mean it like dat…” Vash squeezed her eyes together. Her head was moving too fast, she couldn’t make the right words come out of her mouth. Thinking was taking a lot of effort. “I just. You can’t blame me for assumin’ ya could drive when yer clearly old enough to.” She took back her keys. “Dere’s a hotel across da coulee, come on.”

Ohache hesitated. 

Vash said nothing, but the look on her face was one of a whipped dog.

They left Vash’s car in the parking lot of the restaurant, and walked across the bridge together to the hotel, where Vash passed out almost immediately on one of the two beds, leaving Ohache alone in their thoughts.


	6. Chapter Six

_February_

“Hey…come outside with me for a second.”

The sound of the screen door screeching open made Ohache jump, the cat they’d been petting on their chest lighting off onto the floor with a trill. They turned around to see Vash looking a little disheveled, her hair pulled back into a messy bun, her jeans rolled up to her knees.

“What’s up?” They asked.

Vash waved them through the door into the front yard, where it became quickly obvious what the situation was.

Ohache’s eyes lit up. “Oh man, what are you gonna do with it?”

“Dunno. Too old to make much use of, really, but I gotta get it outta ma ditch, an’ them things weigh a couple hundred pounds.”

“Damn, I’d hate to know what the other guy looks like.”

“He’s why people got crash guards on their trucks,” Vash said, tossing Ohache a pair of gardening gloves. “Come on, Yank, ya gotta have some muscle in dem skinny arms.”

The truth was that Ohache was not terribly athletic, and multiple growth spurts had left them a little on the lanky side. Nonetheless, together they managed to move the six-point whitetail buck onto Vash’s porch, dragging it by the legs around to the back.

“Man, he got a nice rack on ‘im, shame ain’t season no more,” Vash said, hands on her hips. She considered the deer for a long moment. “Oh well.”

She disappeared into the shed behind her house and came back a few moments later with a machete. A few quick chops later Ohache was dragging the deer’s body down the stairs, and Vash was turning a water hose on to wash the blood away before it stained the old white boards.

“So what are you gonna do with its head?” Ohache asked.

“Dunno, prolly pull the horns off and give ‘em to someone.” She dug an old hunting knife out of the shed and knelt down on the patio next to the deer’s head. She grabbed one of the deer’s ears and prepared to saw it off.

Ohache paled. “Oh…oh no no no let me do this, please,” they said, pushing Vash away and taking the knife from her. Deft hands worked across the deer head, and within ten minutes Ohache had produced a perfectly removed pelt, and the head had been cleanly separated from the vertebra. Vash was amazed. Having grown up amongst hunters, she was familiar with how to skin a deer, but only with the intention of producing meat or an antler trophy, not so much a proper pelt and mountable skull.

“Where’d ya learn to do that?”

Ohache grinned. “My ‘official’ job is an intern at a museum. I volunteered there for a few years before signing on to be a ghost, and I picked up a few things.”

Vash shook her head. “Why on earth you quit?”

“Kleptomania’s a bitch.” Ohache laughed wryly. “I never stole from the museum though…I respect knowledge too much to take it from those who need it. ”

“How honourable,” Vash replied. “Be glad y’ain’t never had to steal nothin’ to stay alive. Holdin’ people at gunpoint because ya can’t make rent ain’t fun.”

Ohache’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t imagine doing that in my life. I don’t even know how to load a gun.”

“Seriously? You been doin’ this how long an’ ya don’t know how to load a gun?” Her face was a cross between amusement and pity.

“I’ve never needed to use one.” Ohache shrugged.

“What if one day ya do?”

“Then I guess I’ll die a coward, just like I’ve always lived.”

Vash looked down at the deer head. “Y’wanna learn?”

“What?” Ohache looked up.

“I can teach ya. To use a pistol. There’s enough space here to practice.”

Ohache’s eyebrows threatened to break free of their bonds on their face and fly free.

Vash met their eyes. “Look, kid, yer good at yer job, but one day someone’s gonna have a gun too, an’ _they_ ain’t gonna be as hesitant to use it. Trust me.” She purposefully adjusted her position to make the bandage on her arm obvious. “I don’t like shootin’ people neither, but I’d rather them than me.”

“I’d rather just not put myself in that position to begin with.”

“Suit yourself.” she said, dropping the head in a large storage bin. “I just hope ya never get surprised on the job.”

\---

“Yeah, I’ll stop by home base when I get back to Chicago, I promise. Yeah, coming home tonight, so I can take a bus over tomorrow morning. It’s nice down here, it stays pretty warm, and Mardi Gras was fun. Did you know they eat alligators? I _know_ , right?”

Vash pushed open the screen door from the back porch, just overhearing the conversation between mother and child. She pressed herself to the wall, eavesdropping silently.

“Anyway, I gotta go, I have a full schedule today. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you, mom, bye.” Ohache pressed their finger to the phone screen and hung up.

Vash felt oddly nervous as she stepped around the corner. “Really? Ain’t ya a lil’ old to be callin’ mama?”

Ohache resisted the urge to make a snarky remark back, remembering Vash saying her familial relationships were less than perfect. “I try to call every month or so. I miss them.”

“Wait, ya don’t live at home? Den whose house did I mail ya shit to?”

“My apartment. My parents are in Chicago.”

“Oh.”

“So you’re leavin’ tonight, huh?”

“Yeah.”

The answer hung in the air.

Vash turned away. “Ah.”

\---

“Terminal Three, right?” Vash asked, squinting ahead at the signs against the headlights of the other cars.

“Yeah,” Ohache said, glancing down at their phone. “I think.”

Vash pulled up to the curb near bag check. “Ya gonna hafta run or you’ll be late.” She handed Ohache their duffel bag from the back seat.

“I’m not really in a hurry,” they replied, trying to catch Vash’s attention.

She didn’t notice. Instead she was pushing Ohache out of the door, telling them to turn left when they left bag check, follow signs, run.

They obeyed, trotting away from the car, listening to the engine roar up as she drove away, throwing themselves into the bright airport lights. She was not sentimental. She did not bother with goodbye. Ohache felt alone in the airport.

Throwing their backpack across one shoulder, they jogged through the building to security, bag check, then through to the terminals. Houston, Seattle, Los Angeles, Chicago. They’d been gone three days.

Three days. Ohache’s hand thrust into their pocket, pulling out their phone, heart feeling tight. The cameras. Three keystrokes and the feed was up, and they sat down in the waiting area chair, scrolling to multiple views, multiple apartments. Everything was fine. Fine. 

They hadn’t looked at the cameras in three days.

“Boarding for flight 1154 to Indianapolis beginning now,” the intercom boomed, and Ohache put their phone back in their pocket and got in line.

\---

Vash tried to relax. They were gone, everything was back to normal. Back to your house, with your cats, your bayou in the back, the couch that is no longer occupied, the peace and quiet you revere. But she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking as she put the key in the door and unlocked the house.

The cats were both on the couch, and they looked up at her as she walked in. The house was silent. No talking, no sounds of movement from another room.

“It’s quiet again, girls, right back to normal, huh.”

The cats looked around, and Vash could swear she saw disappointment in their eyes.

She tossed her keys on the bar and reached for the bottle of bourbon. Empty. Scotch will have to do.

It was warm that night, despite it being February. She sat down on the couch with her drink, downing it faster than she should have. A bullfrog bellowed somewhere behind the house. She could hear herself breathing.

In the silence of her house, every single exchange of the last three days played back in her head with excruciating detail, every glimmer of disappointment in Ohache’s eyes, every stupid thing the drink made her say, every single way something could have been misinterpreted. She stared at the ceiling, boring holes in the wooden beams as she tried to shake off the claws digging in her mind, telling her she fucked up. Somewhere, she fucked up.

And it’s not like she should even care, really. They were a random kid she picked up at a nightclub and took a road trip with on a whim. It was work. It was whatever. Been there done this, never felt lonely before.

She laughed wryly into her drink. Of course she’d spend most of her life a stone-cold bachelorette then fall for an androgynous readhead that’s barely old enough to not be considered a child. Boy wouldn’t mom be proud.

If her stupid mouth hadn’t ruined it before it began. Whatever “it” was.

_Enough of this_ , she thought, padding into the living room to drown her emotions in alcohol and television until she fell asleep. She could just turn her brain off for a bit, binge something on Netflix, and-

Vash stopped in her tracks as she looked down at the coffee table, spotlessly cleaned of cups and snack wrappers from the night before. In their place, was a pristinely cleaned deer skull.

Nails dug into her hand involuntarily. _See?_ She tried to tell herself. _See this? This means they don’t hate you, that you’re doing ok._

_Yeah, but for how long,_ the other half of her mind replied. _It’s only a matter of time before you fuck up and they leave, just like everyone else._

She put the glass to her mouth and picked up the TV puncher. It was time to drown out the voices, one way or another.

“Chicago?” It did not sound like a question.

“Is that a problem?” The voice on the other side of the line was tinny in her ears.

“No, but surely dere’s someone more local to handle dis for ya.” They both knew who Vash was talking about.

“I need a technician, not a ghost. There’s a possibility it could get loud.”

“Then get yer good crew to do dis,” Vash was growing irritated. How dare he call on her day off to do bullshit. “My car’s in the shop.”

“They’re busy. I need _you_ , Vacherie.”

“Yer payin’ me double.”

“Fine.”

“An’ yer payin’ for me a car.”

“Fine.”

“An’ yer a fuckass.” She hung up the phone.


	7. Chapter Seven

_March_

“What do you mean you can’t find anyone?” Benvolio growled, barely holding himself together. Time was running out on finding that shipment. He’d muted his phone a week ago to keep himself sane with the amount of angry clients he had wanting to share their opinions of his business practices.

Yorrick was sweating under his suit, back pressed against the leather seat of Benvolio’s limousine, fingers tight on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, Ben, I couldn’t get anyone who was available. We only have so many people we can call on.”

“I’m sure you can find more than _five fucking people_ , Yorrick.”

“No, actually. Everyone’s either dead or quit or not up to snuff for the job.” Yorrick caught his breath. “I also just don’t think it’s a good idea to do this loud.”

“And what, oh wise and powerful Yorrick - my bodyguard, my driver, my eternal companion – do you think I - the CMO of this corporation – should do?”

Benvolio was a willow switch of a man, but Yorrick knew first-hand that his frame betrayed his strength. Luckily limos are built so that little more than arms can reach into the front seating area from the back. “I think you should call a ghost.”

“A ghost.”

“Quick, quiet, doesn’t call attention to us, The Cuban can’t put a pin exactly on who did it, we get our shit back with little to no repercussions. Gain respect, Hattie’s happy, we don’t piss off our employees, and all you have to do is practice some anger management.” Yorrick felt a drip slide down the small of his back.

Behind him, he heard Benvolio sigh. “Let me guess, you already have someone in mind.”

“I wanted to get your approval first before I started going through the files.”

The man in the dark coat took another drag from his cigarette. After a long moment, he exhaled trough his nose. “Put Ohache on it.”

Yorrick’s neck prickled. “It could get loud, though, maybe they aren’t-“

“Our best ghost?” Benvolio finished the sentence for Yorrick. “If they do their job right it won’t get loud. It’s our best shot.”

Unfortunately, Benvolio was right. “I’ll call them when we get done with Hattie,” Yorrick said, trying to hide the sigh in his voice.

\---

Yorrick sat on the living room couch with his laptop on his knees, sipping absently from his third can of cheap beer, trying to make sense of the words in front of him. The meeting with Hattie hadn’t gone well – she wasn’t really the type of person who responded positively to being told that everything wasn’t perfect. The posh Indianapolis restaurant that they had met her at emptied quickly after she and Benvolio started at one another.

Yorrick had intended spend some time soothing Benvolio’s ego when they got home, but the task of keeping Hattie and Benvolio from tearing each other’s throats out in public led him to drinking. Now he was sitting down here alone, while Ben had gone straight upstairs to blow off steam in the shower and pass out.

His cursor was hovering over a photo on the computer screen. That same outdated photo, a shock of fire-engine red hair shaved into an undercut, bangs swept to the right. Currently going by “Ash,” not yet a legal name change but no doubt it would be soon. Work name of “Ohache”, a pun on the battle cry of The Ohio State University, which they never attended. And, according to Benvolio, our best ghost.

Yorrick reached for his cell phone and dialed one of three numbers listed on the page. He got voicemail twice. On the third number, someone picked up.

“Yo.”

“Hey Ash, how’s it going?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Uh, pretty okay.”

“That’s good, that’s good.” God this was awkward. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d called Ohache for anything other than work. And this time was no different.

“I got a job for you, a pretty good one too. No shitty nightclub hit this time. We need you to sneak into a shipping center and recover some contraband for us.”

“Um, sounds good. How long is it gonna take to prep?”

“Well we haven’t even gotten intel yet, so I dunno, a month? Two? I’ll have to get back to you.”

“Let me know, I guess,” Ohache replied.

Yorrick felt his ears go hot. “So uh, got any plans for tomorrow? It’s been a while since we really talked and stuff, we could go get lunch or something.”

The spite in Ohache’s voice was obvious. “Um, well, tomorrow’s the third, so I’ll be in Chicago. With my family.”

 _Fuck_. “Oh, shit dude, I didn’t realize it was March already, shit’s been nuts with work.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

It was too late to salvage this. “Well I gotta go, Ben is trying to call me. Uh, have a good day tomorrow, have fun with your folks.”

“Thanks.”

They hung up first.

\---

The plane could not land fast enough. They’d gotten her first class, but she still hated airplanes. You’d think humanity in all its intelligence would learn how to make cross-country travel less miserable. After that fiasco in Florida she wouldn’t mind if she never touched an airline seat again. The only reason she flew today was to make the trip cost more as payback to her boss for even assigning her this gig.

The pilot’s voice over the intercom gave her permission to leave the plane. Shoving her neighbour out of the way, Vash grabbed her bag from overhead storage and squeezed her way toward the front of the line and out of the cabin, into the terminal.

Fuck, this airport was huge.

\---

Ohache sat on the floor of an apartment, glued to the laptop in their lap, lights off, blinds drawn, pressing against the wall, trying to become small.

They hadn’t been to this one in a few months, and it was routine to lay low that first night, just to make sure. But every liar has to have something with which to perpetuate their lies. This apartment, only a few minutes from the museum they supposedly worked at, was expensive, and relatively furnished. A second-hand couch, a few books on a shelf, boxes of stale snacks in the pantry, skulls on a bookcase near the TV, clothes in the closet that Ohache never touched; the entire place was simply a showpiece. Everything had a layer of dust on it, and Ohache would clean it later, but for now, they sat in the corner, glued to a screen. The laptop was their TV, their radio, their lifeline.

Next door a dog was barking, and Ohache stared at the wall, mind painting pictures of it breaking through, tearing into anything it saw. They shook their head, pushing the thought out. The dog was not going to chew through the wall. It’s barking at someone outside. 

Outside, outside, outside. They flipped the camera feed to outside. A mother and a child walked hand in hand down the hallway and put a key into the door across the hall. When did they move in? Who knows, Ohache spent less time here than anywhere else. Too big, too busy, too many people around.

After what felt like eternity, they set the laptop down on the floor and stood up. They had four hours to make this heap presentable.

\---

Vash ducked into the door marked “Employees Only”, squeezing against the wall to avoid the gaze of the camera, per instructions. Slowly she creeped up around it, standing up on her tiptoes to push it gently to one side, where its gaze would ignore a small corner of the room, just enough space for her to pull her balaclava over her face and screw the silencer on her pistol. 

She slipped along the wall again, peeking into the security booth. A single camera looked down at the computer console. _Shit_. Even though there wouldn’t be any security footage to scan by the time she was out of here, she still didn’t like the idea of the little black eye staring at her while she worked.

Vash stepped in on silent feet, still pressed against the wall. She worked fast, pushing a jump drive into the USB slot of the computer, pulling the window to another screen. When she found what she was looking for, she’d run the .exe, and the entire security system of this museum would go up in smoke, giving her just enough time to grab what she wanted and leave.

\---

Ohache fell into the (newly dusted,) couch, pressing hands that smelled of bleach into their eyes. The silence of the apartment was overbearing, it rang in Ohache’s ears and pressed into their mind. _I should have brought a radio, something, anything_. The TV hadn’t been connected in months. The laptop had died hours ago. Forgot the cord. Phone speakers were tinny and weak, and it was plugged in, charging, it had to stay alive for the night.

A bump on the wall as a neighbor clumsily manoeuvred around their apartment rang like alarm sirens in Ohache’s ears.

_It’s about that time._

The freshly stocked fridge provided water that didn’t taste like sulfur, and Ohache choked down another pill, an attempt to keep themself in check. They still weren’t really sure if they helped, but it made them feel like they were trying.

Shower, shower, need to not smell like dust and cleaner and sweat. Come on, it’s supposed to be a good day. _So why do I feel afraid?_

Ohache felt like they’d just barely stepped into the shower when they heard their phone buzz on the counter. Wet hands reached out, swiped open the screen, pressed the notification.

“On our way!” the text read. Twenty minutes.

\---

Vash walked out of the security booth, setting a timer on her phone. Twenty minutes.

Silently she stepped through specific hallways, avoiding the guards. The museum was spectacular, and she reminded herself to take the time to come back one day. Maybe Ohache would give her a tour. They probably know their way around the place.

Her eyes fell on her target, unguarded, millions of dollars’ worth of jewelry. Why would you put jewelry in a museum? Museums are for dead animals and shitty artwork.

After triple-checking she had the right diamond-encrusted necklace, she snapped a glass cutter to the case and with a screech that she hoped nobody else heard, retrieved her prize. How much money was she holding? It wasn’t even that pretty. Yellow gold and gaudy stones just weren’t Vash’s style.

She shoved the thing in her pocket unceremoniously, and she heard Ohache’s voice in her head: _“I respect knowledge to take it from those who need it.”_ She frowned. Jewelry was not knowledge, it was frivolity and excess.

She glanced at her phone. Ten minutes to spare, nice job. She let herself relax a little. Then she turned a corner, and smacked into a guard.

The two of them stared at one another for a long second before they simultaneously realized what happened. They both went for their guns, his at Vash’s chest, hers at his head.

“Put ya gun down,” she hissed, eyes darting around her. No panic buttons, but no easy way out. If she fired, she’d have the cavalry on her in minutes. She had to bluff it. Or…

The guard refused to surrender. With one hand, he reached for his radio, and the other tensed slightly, preparing to fire. Vash saw, and slammed her heel into his shin, dropping him to his knees. The gun went skittering across the floor. The guard’s hand flew to his radio again, but Vash brought up a knee into his nose. Blood erupted out of the broken extremity, splattering on the floor.

Vash heard the pop of the walkie as someone else’s voice crackled through.

“I heard a thud, you okay?”

“Answer it,” Vash demanded. 

The guard did not obey.

“Answer ya fuckin’ walkie,” she hissed as loud as she dared.

“Alton? You there?” The voice seemed to be growing concerned.

 _Fuck, he’s gonna be a shit_ , Vash thought. She stood there, gun aimed at his head, trying to decide what to do. Firing was out of the question, unless she wanted to keep firing the entire way out the door. She had only one option, and she had no idea how to use it.

The black box was supposed to cause interference to any electronic device in a twenty foot radius, but how she was supposed to turn it on was a mystery. Her boss had given it to her “just in case.” She kept telling him she wasn’t a ghost. He didn’t seem to care.

“Hey Jackie, go to the second floor and bring Alton a new walkie, eh? Sounds like his is busted. Dropped it again probably.”

“Will do.”

Vash’s face felt hot as she struggled to find the on switch.

No good. Vash knew the equipment room was on the third floor, which meant she had a maximum of five minutes til ol’ Jackie showed up and she had double the issues.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out her cell phone. There was only one person who had called her in the past two months, and she pushed her finger to the number. It began to dial, and she caught herself muttering a prayer to the saints that the person on the other end picked up.

\---

Ohache stared at the phone. _Why on earth would she call me at this hour?_

“Hello?”

“Please tell me ya know how to work da lil’ black box tings that fuck up phones?” Her voice sounded strained.

“The ECM jammers? Yeah, why-“

“Why do ya think, ya fuckin’-“ She caught herself. “Jus’ tell me how to turn it on.”

“Do you see any buttons on the front?”

“No, it’s all smooth.”

“Then pull the front off of it.” Ohache looked at the clock on the dresser. They’d be here any minute. “Now are there buttons?”

“No. I can’t even get it open.”

“Then try the other side.” Ohache’s words were patronizingly calm.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking child, Ohache,” Vash hissed into their ear.

“Vash I have company in like five fucking minutes,” Ohache felt the stress rising in their throat. Like the apartment wasn’t enough.

“An’ I got my gun on a fuckin’ security guard. I don’t really feel like havin’ ya walk me through this either, but if I don’t then Jackie’s gonna kill me an’ I’m not really in the mood.” It was a lot of talking, given the situation.

Ohache knew they would get nowhere having an argument now. “If you can’t get the other side open the look on the bottom – the part that doesn’t have antenna sticking out of it – there’ll be a switch.”

“No switch.”

“Fuck, hold on.” Some new model, had to be, they’d have to look it up - forcing themselves away from the sound of Vash’s voice to search on their phone. “Alright, I got it, hold your finger on the thing that looks like a button til it lights up, then press the other button at the top.” They’d wasted precious minutes on that search, for both of them.

“What button?”

There was a knock on Ohache’s door.

“Vash, please use your head for a second, my family is here and I cannot have this conversation with you right now!”

“An’ I’m gonna fuckin’ _die_ if ya don’t have dis conversation with me right now!” The sounds of yelling echoed in the background.

Ohache pressed their fingertips to the bridge of their noise. Who was more important right now?

They groaned, pulling the phone from their ear to look at the webpage again.

“Okay, no button, just turn the dial at the top near the antennae and it should-“

An ear-shattering screech filled Ohache’s ear. She got it. Fucking finally.

The knocking intensified.

“I’m coming!” Ohache called, hanging up the phone, pushing their hair back from their face, putting on a happy face, pushing down their thoughts. You have to be fine. For them.

After all, it _is_ your birthday.

\---

“Ya family gone yet?”

Ohache sighed. “No, and I had to go into the bathroom to answer the phone, so I hope this is important.”

“Oh. Not really, I guess. Jus’ wonderin’ what’s good to eat in Chicago.”

“You’re in Chicago?”

“Yeah, an’ I’m freezin’ my tits off.”

There was a silence that Ohache felt was too long to not be awkward. “How long are you gonna be here?”

_Here?_ “Supposed to leave tomorrow, but I dunno if I’mma make it if I don’ eat.”

Ohache’s voice caught in their throat. “Do you…wanna meet us at Gino’s in half an hour?”

“What’s dat?”

“Big pizza.”

“Sure.”

Ohache felt like they might faint.

\---

“So, Alexis, you’re interning at the museum too? How on earth did you end up all the way in Illinois?”

Vash twirled the straw in her soda nonchalantly, completely a professional bullshitter. “No idea, really, it jus’ kinda happened. It was strange movin’ all da way up here, but it’s not so bad. Food could use some more spice though.” She laughed. “This ain’t bad though, I never had dis kinda pizza before.”

“You’ve been in Chicago how long and you’ve not had deep dish?” Ohache’s mom was aghast.

“When ya work the hours I do, ya don’t really get a chance to eat out much.” She gave an apologetic smile. “I like cookin’, so I usually stay in on da weekends, too.”

Ohache could hardly believe that less than an hour ago she’d been working. Somehow on the way to the restaurant she’d managed to handle her hair, put on makeup that didn’t look like she did it in a car, _and_ change into something that was appropriate for the northern winter. And now here she was, talking to Ohache’s parents and making up her career on the fly and it _made sense_. How does she do it?

Their dad elbowed Ohache in the side. “She’s pretty, Ash.”

Vash raised an eyebrow, and Ohache’s face flushed redder than their hair. “Dad no, she’s not - she’s my partner –“

“Partner?” Ohache’s dad gave his kid a playful grin. “So like, just gay, or…?”

Ohache felt like they may explode. “Coworker dad, not like…partner…partners.” 

Vash laughed, setting her chin in her hand. “Oh, we’re partners now? I didn’t think we worked in the same department.”

Ohache gave her a look that screamed _just kill me_. “I…no…we don’t but…” Their head was going faster than their mouth.

Ohache’s dad laughed and put an arm around them. “I’m just messing with you, Ash.”

Ohache laughed weakly, looking at Vash, but they couldn’t read anything in her lopsided smile but amusement at a father teasing his offspring.

She stretched out. “I gotta go to da bathroom real quick,” she said, standing up and walking off.

Ohache hastily stood up. “Me too.” _Why am I doing this, I don’t need to pee, I don’t even want to talk to her._

They walked stiffly around the corner to the bathroom, ducking into the door. They pressed themself into the wall briefly, catching their breath, closing their eyes, trying to quiet their head.

“Ash, eh? Kinda awkward.”

Ohache’s eyes snapped open, locking with Vash’s. She stood against the opposing wall, arms crossed, a look on her face that Ohache couldn’t read. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, what did I do what did I do?_

“Uh…yeah…that…I guess that is weird, huh.”

“I like it.”

Ohache looked up at her again. “What?”

“It fits you.” Her face was a stone wall.

“Th…anks.” _What does that even mean?_

“Why didn’t ya tell me it’s yer birthday?”

“It never came up.” _I never thought I’d see you again._

“I thought ya said we was friends, man, why ya leavin’ me out?” She had a crooked smile.

“I…I didn’t…” Friends? _Friends?_

Vash sighed and walked over to Ohache. They stiffened, ready to duck, to turn the corner and get the fuck away from whatever she was about to do.

She stopped short of them awkwardly, crossing her arms against her body, pressing her fingers into her sides. She wouldn’t look at them.

“Thanks for earlier. Really. I’d’ve been ground meat if ya hadn’t answered da phone.”

_What? What?_ “Oh…it was nothing…”

“They keep givin’ me these ghost jobs that I ain’t good at. I dunno why. They should be for you.”

“Maybe you should go to ghost school. For ghosts.” Their laugh was forced. _Good job Ash, make stupid jokes when she’s trying to be serious._

“Or ya could just come with me an’ do it for me.” She looked up at Ohache, meeting their eyes.

“Wh…what?”

Vash pressed her fingers tighter into her side. “We could actually be partners.”

Ohache’s heart stopped.

“Business partners. Not…what ya dad thought I was.” Vash laughed. “Unless yer into it.”

“No…I know…just….why?”

Vash shrugged. “I like ya.”

\---

“So explain to me why there’s writing on literally everything?” Vash was gazing up in awe, eyes poring over every name written, even up to the rafters.

“Dunno, people just started doing it, and it caught on.”

“I guess yer name is here somewhere, huh?”

Ohache looked around at the walls. “Sort of. Last time I came here, I went by a different name.”

“Oh?”

Ohache could see them, young them, hair to their shoulders, crawling on their knees to write their birth name underneath a table. It didn’t feel right even then. They claimed it was just hard to find a clean spot to write, but deep down they knew it was so no one would see.

They ignored Vash’s question. “Come on; let’s find a spot where you can write.”

They managed to find a spot that didn’t require a ladder or going under a booth. Vash pulled out a pen and wrote six letters on the well-covered brick. _Alexis Thibideaux_. 

“Oh…that’s your real name.”

“Yep.”

“I figured that was just something you made up.” Ohache stared at her, dressed in an oversized coat and jeans that looked authentically torn. “It’s kinda girly.”

She smiled. “It happens to be one of the few things I like about myself.”

Ohache took the pen from her. “I’ve gotta resign this,” they said, writing their new name on the wall underneath Vash’s. _Ash Walsh._

As the group walked out into the cold night, Ohache slipped away from the rest, back into the restaurant. They padded around tables, eyes running across thousands upon thousands of names. Finally, the found it, hidden underneath a booth, though not as lonely as it once was.

Ohache pulled the pen out, running a thick black line across the name that once belonged to them.

When they rejoined the group, they saw it in Vash’s eye that she’d noticed their absence. Nobody else seemed to have. She was a professional, after all.

They fell into step beside her, walking back to her car.

“Takin’ care o’ business?” She asked.

“You could say that.”

“Do ya feel better?”

“Maybe eventually.”

Vash stared at them, and Ohache sensed her intention to do more. “I hope ya get there, _cher._ ”

Ohache sighed, wanting to believe it. “Sure.”

Vash unlocked her car. “I gotta get goin’ back home. Have fun with ya family. Thanks for dinner.”

Ohache started to reach for her, but stopped. “Hey, about the partners thing. How is that gonna work?” _How could you possibly like me?_

“When I get a job that needs a ghost, I’ll call ya. I guess.” She slid into the seat of her car. “Ya can fly or whatever ya do to where I am, an’ fly home. Easy. I guess if ya boss Moneybags McDickface needs ya to do somethin’ that day I can do it alone. Wouldn’t want ya getting’ in trouble.”

“What if I wanted to go with you on your loud jobs?

Vash stared at them. “Then ya might wanna learn to use that gun.”

\---

Ohache’s family left for their hotel late that night. Tomorrow, they’d planned to visit the Field Museum, maybe grab more pizza, see a movie. Spend time as a family. Dennis was even going to try to drag himself away from the lab to visit for a couple hours.

But for now, Ohache lay in bed, covers up to their chin, curled in on themselves. Be small, be quiet. Be a ghost.

The paranoia was worse at this apartment. During the day was easy because there was almost always a distraction, but when night crept in and it got hard to see, the shadows came alive.

Ohache kept the lights on.

_You need to take your medicine or you’ll never sleep_ , they told themself, but the darkness beyond the bedroom door laughed at them. _Just eat me and get it over with._

Ohache pushed themselves out of the bed on feet that didn’t want to move, forced themselves into the kitchen and the rows of neat bottles that were arranged there only for the eyes of their family. White pills, with water, keeping the nightmares away.

They slammed the glass down with more force than necessary. _Why would she ever like me? I’m a coward. I’m barely brave enough to stay alive._


	8. Chapter Eight

_May_

“No, no, hear me out,” Ohache looked like they were about to vibrate out of the restaurant booth. “This guy is _hella_ rich. Like, shits gold and finds hundos under their couch cushions rich. He donates to the museum I worked at regularly; I have no idea where he gets his shit. One time a bunch of the volunteers went with one of the curators to pick up some donations, and we ended up going to his house. And _holy shit_.”

Vash grinned. “The motherlode?”

“Oh my _god_ yes. Seriously, it was so hard not to pinch everything he owned, but I promised myself one day I’d go back and visit. Never had the chance to, though, because my internship ended and I had to find other employment.” Ohache raised an eyebrow. _You know what I mean_. “There was one really cool thing he had in his house though, and I’d love to see it again. He’s got this huge wolf skeleton in the library.”

“A wolf? Wolves ain’t special.”

“No, see, this one is different. It’s a _dire_ wolf.”

Vash raised an eyebrow. “A direwolf. Ash, them things don’t actually exist.”

“But it’s real! I know, I checked. There’s plenty ways to know if a skeleton is real or not, like looking for a seam, or just looking at the colour, or heating up the end of a hairpin and pressing it to the surface-“

She interrupted them before they could go into a full lecture on how to validate skeletons. “Okay, great, so it’s a real skeleton. But that don’t mean it’s a direwolf.”

“If I had it, I could find out.” Ohache looked Vash in the eye, a smile crossing their face that told Vash everything she needed to know about why her partner was telling her this story.

The waiter came around and handed Vash the ticket, which she absently replaced with a hundred dollar bill, waving him off, telling him to keep the change. 

The starving college kid, struggling to earn a degree in an economy going down the shitter, went immediately in to the break room, and sobbed.

\---

Ohache’s heart was in their throat as they pushed the key into the lock of the apartment they stayed in last. _Are you really sure you want her to see how you live?_ They turned the knob. _I have nothing to hide from my partner. Keep telling yourself that._

Ohache pushed the door open, thumb pressed into the key on their phone that disabled the alarms. “Well, this is it.”

Vash stepped in and looked around at the absolute emptiness before her. This one was a studio apartment, and the only furniture in the place was a mattress on the floor with a pillow and blanket hastily thrown on top. The rest of the place looked completely untouched.

“Cozy.” She said flatly, standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room area.

“I don’t stay in one place long enough to bother decorating. The one that does have shit in it gets dusty because I hate it.” Ohache sighed. “It’s pretty much only for when my family visits.” 

Vash leaned her suitcase against a wall. “Wish youd’ve told me ya didn’t have much inna way of guest accommodations, I’da brought an air mattress.” She looked around. “I guess da floor works though.”

“Nah, I’ll sleep on the floor. I end up there most nights anyway.” Ohache gave a weak smile. They tried to make it sound endearing, but the truth was less so. Bad nights could sometimes only be survived by attempting to become one with the carpet.

They set a grocery bag down on the counter and started stocking the fridge. “Sheets are clean, blah, blah, I haven’t stayed here in a month or so, so I’m sorry if you find a spider or six.”

“I ain’t bothered by spiders.”

_This was a terrible idea_ , Ohache thought to themself, ducking behind the counter to push things into their proper place. _Why did you let her see just how bad you live? How is she supposed to like you if you can’t even like yourself enough to stay in one place?_

Ohache didn’t hear her move behind them until she was sitting on the floor next to them. That all too familiar feeling of their heart stopping, adrenaline spiking, blood rushing in ears. She said nothing, just started putting things into the fridge with them, her shoulder pressing against theirs.

_Why are you doing this? Can’t you see I’m not worth your attention? I can’t even talk to you and enjoy your company._

They finished handling the food in silence, and Ohache was painfully aware that there was nothing to do in their apartment. No TV, barely functional Wi-Fi, only their laptops to keep them company. Their head buzzed. _Why did I do this? Why why why why why why why why._

Vash stood up and stretched. “I need a shower,” she announced, and promptly started pulling her shirt off.

“What the fuck Vash, you can’t just-“ Ohache was appalled.

Vash stared at them, holding her shirt in her hands. Ohache tried to ignore the intricate ink lines running down her sternum, the scars across her arms. The gunshot wound from Mardi Gras weekend was healed, raw and pink.

“Get used to it. Every now n’ then I get shot or somethin’ an’ ya can’t be shy when ya gotta sew me back up.” She turned around and walked into the bathroom.

Ohache stared after her, trying not to explode _._

\---

Vash pressed her fingertips into the door at her back, trying to regulate her breathing. The shower was running, more to cover up sound than to heat the water up adequately, the steam in the air loosening her lungs.

What was she doing here? It felt awkward, painful, forced. Ohache looked like they might have a heart attack at any moment, and she navigated around the place with as much grace as a bull elephant. _Way to win friends, dipshit_.

She pulled the rest of her clothes off and stepped into the shower, relinquishing control to the hot water.

She came to Indianapolis of her own volition, a desperate attempt to ease the emptiness she found herself experiencing more often than not these days. She’d been alone for years, but lately she longed to hear someone else’s voice, to feel someone at her side as she walked down the street. Someone to just be there.

When she got out of the terminal, Ohache was waiting for her near the rental cars, looking stressed and scared, but she instantly felt calmer.

_It’s going to be hard to go home._

When she stepped out of the shower, she somehow felt worse than when she got in. She caught a glimpse of herself in the fogged-over mirror, hair slicked against her head, dark circles under her eyes that never seemed to go away. _You look like warmed up shit._

She grabbed a towel out of a cabinet and pressed it to her face, blocking out the view. _One of us has to keep it together if this is gonna work._

\---

Ohache was sitting on the floor of the living room, frowning at something on their phone, a roll of blueprints weighed down on the floor in front of them with random items pulled from their backpack. They’d acquired them a couple days previously, and truth be told, they’d have made them themselves, but backup was never a bad idea. Benvolio’s sources were second to none, at least most of the time.

Vash emerged from the bathroom, unwrapping a towel from around her hair, letting it fall to her waist in wet strands. She saw the blueprints and grinned, dropping to her knees next to Ohache, leaning forward to read small details.

She pointed at something on the sheet, and asked a question they didn’t hear, because Ohache was too busy staring at the scars, barely visible against her tan skin, lining her thighs and forearms. Work? Maybe some of them, but the majority were too straight, too uniform.

Vash looked at them, meeting their eyes. She followed their eyes downward, and understood the pained expression on their face. “Work gets rough sometimes.” She tried to keep telling herself that.

“You’ve gotten knifed that many times?” Ohache looked worried.

“Nah, most of that is bein’ clumsy.” _No really, Paran, the cat attacked me again._

“Maybe I really do need to give you ghosting lessons,” Ohache said, laughing. “I can count the number of scars I have on my hands.”

“Stick with me an’ you’ll be a tiger in no time.”

Ohache wasn’t sure if they should be comforted or afraid. They did not reply.

Vash stretched. “I can’t concentrate on dis without something to drink. Want anything?”

“Coke, I guess,” they replied, as they watched Vash pad over to the kitchen and grab a bottle of amber liquid from the counter that they were confident would be empty in less than an hour.

\---

“This feels weird,” Ohache said, snapping the seatbelt of the rental car around their lap. “It just doesn’t have the same aesthetic.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t drivin’ a full twelve hours on my day off.” She started the car, which felt and sounded mediocre. “You just gonna hafta deal with the lil’ Mazda for this trip.”

“We could’ve taken the bus,” Ohache pointed out.

“Ya gonna carry ya work stuff onta public transport? Don’t think so.” Vash laughed. “Yessir, I’m sorry, I set my high powered rifle on toppa ya suitcase.”

Ohache fell into step with her roleplay. “Oh, no problem ma’am, let me just arrange that for you so it doesn’t put pressure on my nuclear bomb.”

“An’ that is the story of how we accidentally met my boss on the fuckin’ IndyGo.”

Vash merged onto the highway, headlights illuminating the empty road before her. The little car struggled to obey her heavy foot. Next time she’d spend the money on a Camaro or something, this was painful. Here’s to hoping they didn’t need to escape in this thing.

“Does your boss actually live here?” Ohache asked.

“No clue. All our correspondence is on secure lines an’ email n’ shit. I really doubt it though, I mean, what self-respecting criminal sets up shop in Indianapolis?”

Ohache snorted. “ _My_ boss.”

“Yeah, well. We know what kinna person _he_ is.”

After some time, Vash exited, turning onto a back road that she knew would take them to the field behind the rich man’s house.

“Gear up before we get dere.”

Ohache was familiar with this procedure by now, even though this was only their third time working together, and the first where they proposed the hit themselves. The back seat of Vash’s car contained their equipment – lock picks, safe drill, signal jammers, handguns, Vash’s favourite rifle, extra duffel bags for whatever else they felt like pinching. They pulled a lightweight ballistics vest over their head (Vash’s orders,) pushing the handgun they never used into a holster at their hip, carefully placing their necessary ghost equipment into the many, many pockets of their pants.

Vash parked the car at the edge of the tree line, and the two of them walked carefully out to the edge of the property. There was no security out here, they’d checked. It was a nice neighbourhood, and even the rich people felt they had little to worry about. Vash was confident after days of prep, but Ohache felt the familiar anxiety rising in their chest as they pulled the balaclava over their head. Just stave it off; you know once you get in there you’ll be fine.

Security inside the house was still abysmal, at least to Ohache’s standards, and they were freely creeping around inside within minutes. Vash ached to move faster, but Ohache was leading right now; after all, they knew the layout of the place better than she did, and really, she was just here to point a gun at things.

The library was easy to find, set behind two huge solid wood doors. Vash stood behind Ohache, fingers on the safety of her gun, keeping watch as they picked a lock with deft hands, pushed the heavy doors open, pulled her inside.

The wolf wasn’t hard to miss, standing guard over a plate glass bay window, casting shadows on the floor that Ohache swore they saw in a nightmare once. Vash pulled her small drill from her pocket, pressing a bit into it, and setting to work on the metal plates holding the bones in place. Ohache stood over her, heart pounding in their ears, _please don’t hear this, please don’t hear this._

The house remained silent, the gods of the heist smiling down on them through the windows in the form of silver moonlight. Vash checked her watch. Ten minutes ‘til the guards crossed this way again.

She handed the bag of bones delicately to Ohache, and they eased their way out of the library.

“So now what? That was almost boring easy.” Vash itched for something more.

Ohache shrugged. There was little action in the ghost game, and that’s how the ghosts like it.

They started heading toward their exit, when Vash heard footsteps. Ohache froze, eyes wide with terror, throwing themself behind a potted plant. Their head spun as Vash grabbed their arm, pulling them out, dragging them down the hallway, around a corner, another, another.

“C’mon, stop bein’ a fuckin’ coward,” she hissed, words harsher than she meant them, and Ohache felt shamed. _How disappointing of you, now she thinks you’re a coward who shuts down at every wrong moment._

But there was something in her eyes that made Ohache nervous. They were wide, looking around, not recognizing where she was.

She was swearing, she was lost, the only way she knew was blocked, she hadn’t looked at the rest of the plans, just the best way in and out, fuck her, fuck _me_ , fuck her lack of planning.

The guard’s footsteps were ringing closer, and Vash looked like she was about to have a breakdown. They had to get out, now.

Ohache picked themself up off the floor, a surge of adrenaline running through their veins. They were terrified, but self-preservation won over.

“Follow me,” they said, their voice calm, pulling Vash along behind them. She obeyed wordlessly, simultaneously terrified of and grateful for Ohache’s sudden switch.

The memory of the blueprints flashed in Ohache’s mind, eyes darting around, finding the hallway on the paper, plotting a course, figuring movement patterns of guards, footsteps from down the long hallways ringing like bells in their ear. From somewhere behind, Ohache heard a voice, and they turned around to see a silhouette reaching to their hip. Ohache’s brain stopped working momentarily, watching the guard pull his gun in slow motion. _This is it, this is how I die._

But Vash was faster. She pressed herself against Ohache, shielding them with her body, firing a suppressed shot that still echoed around the building. Ohache heard the ring of the brass falling to the floor, and realized they had no way to getting through this door in time. Lock picking required listening, and shots were now being fired, and quiet was out of the question.

“Vash, the door,” they said, leaning back against her, so she felt more than heard the words.

“Kick it in!” she yelled, firing off another potshot.

Ohache squeezed their eyes shut and smashed the lock with all the strength they could muster. It didn’t budge.

Vash grabbed them, replacing their body with hers, and threw herself against the door. The doorframe splintered. She tried again, feeling her shoulder pop as she drove it into the wood again. The lock gave way, and she grabbed her terrified partner and threw them pulled them into the room with her.

Ohache’s eyes were dilated so wide there was little blue left to see.

Vash pushed her handgun into their hands, pushing their hands towards the hallway behind them. “Remember when I said one day someone would have a gun pointed atcha? Don’t miss.”

The man stepped around the corner, gun drawn, and all Ohache could see was the barrel pointed square in the center of their chest. They couldn’t think. Gunshots rang through the air.

Vash swung her rifle under her arm and flipped off the safety. One, two, three rounds into the lock of the garage door, and she was pulling it open, dragging Ohache behind her into the yard, shots echoing behind her, into the dark woods behind the house, in a roundabout path back to where they’d parked the car.

Ohache was shaking uncontrollably in the passenger seat, gun still clutched in their hand.

Vash pulled off their balaclava, slapping them in the face. “Hey, pull it together. Y’ain’t dead, yer fine, we made it.”

Ohache caught their breath. Their face stung, and their hands ached. They were still clutching their gun in white knuckles.

She was looking into their eyes, looking for something. “Ya aight?”

Ohache focused on her. _Ground yourself_. “Yeah.”

They were silent on the ride back to the apartment. They stared at their hands, watching the light from the street lights flicker across them in rhythm. Small hands, pale skin, short nails, so good at tiny, intricate functions, at writing extensive mathematical equations on paper. Not good at holding a weapon, at aiming, at pulling the trigger, firing the round. And yet.

“Vash, have you ever had to kill anyone?” Their voice was small.

Vash flicked her eyes to Ohache, but they weren’t looking at her. “A few times.”

Ohache didn’t say anything.

Vash sensed the meaning behind the question. “Ya do what ya do ta survive.”

Ohache’s eyes burned. “But I didn’t _need_ to…I didn’t _need_ any of this, I don’t _need_ anything!” They balled up their hands into fists. “I just destroyed a man’s family for a bag of fucking bones!”

Their head hurt, their thoughts were coming too fast. “I can’t believe how fucking selfish that was.” _I’m trash, I’m worthless, how dare I feel so entitled to anything that I would kill to get it._

Vash said nothing.

Ohache buried their head in their hands, unable to hold back their emotions. “How do you handle it, Vash?”

Vash stared at the dark road in front of her. “I drink.”

\---

Ohache lay on the floor, pressing their hands into their eyes, trying to make the world stop.

“That’s whatcha get for stealin’ my bourbon while I’m in da shower.” Vash’s voice was calm, but the accusation in her voice was unmistakable.

“You have no room to talk,” Ohache growled, removing their hands and staring her in the face. “You drink so much I’m surprised your liver hasn’t shut down.”

“ _I_ know when to stop,” she said, voice low and threatening.

“And when is that? Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not drinking.”

Her temper flared. “That’s my business. I’m an adult an’ I can make my own bad choices, but that don’t mean I want ya ta end up like me.”

Ohache’s laughed dryly. “I could never be like you.”

Ohache’s sleep was plagued with nightmares. Over and over again they watched that man fall, fall, fall to the floor in a heavy thud. In reality, Vash had yanked them through the freshly opened door, but in their dreams the dead men rose again, grabbing at Ohache’s clothes, bringing them down with them. Someone was screaming, and Ohache wasn’t sure if it was themself or the ghouls before them.

One man pressed a rotting hand to Ohache’s face, hissing as it pulled them downward, pulling them into himself. Ohache struggled, but the man held tighter, tighter, tighter…

Ohache sat bolt upright, hair slicked against their face with sweat, unable to catch their breath. A nightmare. Had they taken their medicine? They couldn’t remember. Their head pounded, their mouth dry. They couldn’t breathe.

The apartment was dark, and they’d been on the floor. They struggled to stand up, intending to get a glass of water, when a wave of nausea brought them back to their knees. The alcohol.

Ohache cupped their hands around their mouth, struggling to retain control as they sprinted into the bathroom.

Ohache pressed the cold, wet rag to their forehead, feeling as though nothing could possibly be more miserable in that moment than them. Their stomach was far from settled, their heart rate only just now beginning to ebb, but the screams of the dead man still echoed in their ears.

“Just let me die and get it over with,” they muttered to themselves, hot tears brimming in their eyes. “Probably better off dead anyway.”

Arms reached around, pulling them close, pressing Ohache into her chest, her forehead resting on her young partner’s shoulder.

Ohache struggled against her. “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.”

“Okay then, I don’t.” She held tight. “But I still care ‘bout ya even when ya fuck up.”

“Yeah right.”

She still held on.

\---

Vash stepped out of her car into the heat of the Louisiana spring, relishing in its warmth after the cold of the North. She pushed herself up on her tip toes, stretching her legs after the long flight and drive home. The day was cloudless.

She popped the trunk and started pulling equipment and suitcases out, setting them on the ground. Gun case, suitcase, a backpack, a duffel bag that rattled suspiciously.

“Keys,” a voice said at her side. She tossed them, hearing the jingle as they landed in her partner’s hands. The duffel bag and backpack were taken, and she heard the screen door screech open. She pulled a Styrofoam ice chest out of the trunk, shutting it with her other hand.

She carried her things into the house, dropping them at their customary spot near the door, to be taken care of later.

Ohache was already on the floor, pressing both of Vash’s cats to their chest, murmuring their names into their fur.

Vash looked around at the empty wooden walls of her house, thinking that it felt too empty now. Maybe she should finally hang up that deer head.

“So how long ya plannin’ on takin’ up space on my couch?” Vash asked, hefting her gun bag to her shoulder and walking into her junk room.

“What do you mean ‘how long’? I’m planning on moving in, didn’t you know?” Ohache’s voice echoed from the living room.

“Oh are ya?”

“Your house needs some personality, and I,” Vash heard a click as Ohache snapped their fingers, “Have just enough.”


	9. Chapter Nine

_May_

“We need a name.”

“What?” Vash looked up from the box she was rifling through.

“If we’re gonna be doing this whole partners thing, we need to have a cool team name. Like _Los Machos_ , or the Vice Lords.”

“Why can’t we jus’ be ‘Vash n’ Ohache’? It worked for Bonnie an’ Clyde.”

Ohache pouted. “Because I want a cool name.”

Vash sighed. “Fine, come up with somethin’ good an’ I’ll consider it.”

Ohache reached into the box Vash had opened and started pulling out things. Whoever had packed this box did so in a hurry - there was little rhyme or reason to the items inside.

“How on earth did you get so much shit when you lived in an apartment with someone else before moving here?” Ohache asked.

“Some of this is my parents’ that never came outta boxes. Some of it is just shit I bought after I moved here an’ never did anythin’ with.” She shrugged. 

“So why did you never do anything with it?”

Vash pulled out a set of Mardi Gras masks that her grandmother had handmade for her mother. Pristine lines of glittering paint streaked down from the eyes, and a gold fleur-de-lis adorned the center of the forehead. “Same reason ya live in five different empty apartments. Never felt like home.”

Ohache stared at the contents of the box for a long moment. Days had passed since they’d had looked at their cameras, and they wanted to keep it that way. _How does Vash not feel at home here? This is the closest thing to home I’ve felt since I left my family._

“Come up with any names yet?” Vash asked, noticing her partner had zoned out, attempting to pull them back to reality before they got too deep.

Ohache snapped back instantly and in form. “Yeah, let’s just be like Bonnie and Clyde and use our real names. Ash and Alexis. AA.” Ohache snapped their fingers and gave Vash a shit-eating grin.

Vash squinted at them, catching the joke. She took a drink from the glass at her side in defiance. It wasn’t alcohol, but the sentiment was still there.

“You’re no fun, Lex.”

Vash smirked. “An’ yer bad at jokes.”

\---

“I’m going to die.”

“No y’ain’t.”

“No, this time I am really going to die.”

Ohache lay sprawled out on the floor of Vash’s living room, stripped down to shorts and a tank top. Vash stood over them, resplendent in a similar outfit, her hair tied up on her head with a pick. The air inside Vash’s house was being moved by a fan, but she refused to turn on the air conditioning.

“Liberate me from this hell; please let me touch the thermostat, Lex.” Ohache rolled over, looking up at her with pleading eyes.

“It’s not hot.”

“It’s eighty degrees!”

“A pleasant day, that’s why da windows are open.”

“It’s _May_!” Ohache looked close to tears.

“Just wait ‘til July.” Vash’s smile was not reassuring.

“It snowed in Chicago yesterday!”

Vash scooped up her roommate in her arms and carried them outside effortlessly. “Here, there’s a nice breeze outside. Take a break from workin’.”

She set her young companion down on the porch, patting their bright red hair gently. “ _Cher, bébé_. M’ma Lexie make ya better.”

Ohache tried to argue, but they were focusing very hard on remaining a solid.

Vash returned in a few minutes holding a blanket and a cooler. “Hungry?”

“It’s not so bad here by the river, you were right.” Ohache said around shoving a sandwich into their mouth. 

“It’s a bayou, not a river.”

“It’s the same thing,” Ohache replied.

“Actually no.”

Ohache took another bite. “It’s water and it’s brown. Looks just like every river in Illinois to me.”

There was a moment of silence as they ate their sandwiches, listening to the sounds of birds in March madness singing their hearts out.

“So why all of a sudden ya wantin’ to help me clean out my spare room?”

“I only made an observation that the place was rather barren, you were the one who got all huffy about it and started throwing shit everywhere.” Ohache replied.

Vash didn’t deny it. “Eh. I’ve been lookin’ for an excuse to handle it anyway. It’s been four years.”

“Holy shit, you’ve lived here for four years and never decorated?” Ohache shoveled chips into their mouth in disbelief.

“Holy shit, you’ve lived in Indianapolis for how long and never decorated?” Vash made her point.

“You have some cool shit though, I can’t believe you hid it in boxes this entire time. That deer head! Your rug! All your creepy masks and shit!”

Vash smiled weakly. “The deer was from my grandpa. The masks from my grandma. I…jus’ kinda forgot I owned all that.”

“The difference in us is that I just don’t own anything. The coolest thing I have is a coyote skull in one of my apartments.”

“Ya got that dire wolf in the utility room now.”

Their eyes darkened slightly. “Yeah, I should put that together sometime.”

Tendrils of fear crawled up their belly, and they forced them down. _I’ll have my nightmares at night; don’t ruin this for me now._

Vash cleared her throat. “Anyway, maybe it won’t be so shitty at my house if there’s somethin’ to look at, now.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

They immediately realized how that sounded, and looked up at Vash. She showed no change in emotion, calmly sipping a cider and staring out over the bayou.

_You fucked up, Ash. She won’t tell you, but you fucked up._

She leaned slightly against them, touching her arm to theirs. “Hey, look.”

Ohache looked up, following her arm and finger, pointing to the bayou. There was a low ripple in the water.

“Alligator,” Vash said. “Haven’t seen one ‘round here in a while.”

Ohache could barely see the shape of its head, just poking above the water. “Huh.”

“Maybe it’ll lay eggs in my yard.” She was smiling. “You’ll have to come visit when they hatch.”

Ohache felt guilty and relieved at the same time. “Yeah, maybe I will.”

\---

“What if instead of our names we kept the AA theme but it was like, American Assclowns or something?”

“Why’re ya so desperate for it to spell AA?” Vash flicked her eyes in her partner’s direction, glancing at them over a glass of scotch.

“It is an ironic joke referring to your struggle with alcoholism.”

“I don’t struggle with it, I enjoy being drunk.”

"That’s not something to brag about, Lex.” They paused, going back to the issue at hand. “Traveling Tricksters? We do seem to drive a lot.”

“That makes us sound like a circus troupe.”

Ohache’s eyebrows crinkled as they stared thoughtfully at the floor of the hotel room. “Car Bombs?”

“I’m a tech, not a demo man.”

“Ghost Riders!” Ohache’s head snapped around, eyes wide.

Vash gave them a look. “Really?”

They looked crestfallen. “You’re right, you couldn’t ghost if your life depended on it.” Ohache returned to thought. “What if we did something in that weird language of yours? The Cullion Clan.”

“You mean _couillon_?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“You can’t even fuckin’ say it right!” Vash was laughing.

“Fine then, Buckeye Bros.”

I ain’t no fuckin’ Ohioan.”

Ohache threw their hands up. “You’re too picky! You think of something for once.”

Vash looked thoughtful for a moment. “ _Équipage Criminelle._ ”

Ohache blanched. “Never mind, no French. Fuck French.”

“ _Pic kee toi_ ,” Vash replied, giving Ohache the finger.

“Fuck _you,_ ” Ohache groaned, flopping across the center console dramatically. “I know what that one means.”

Vash shoved her hand into a suitcase, producing a manila folder. “I’m so proud of you.”

She tossed them the folder. “Ya needta to get to work though.”

“Yep, the bus will be at the stop any minute, so I should probably get going,” they said, checking the clock on the hotel’s nightstand. They didn’t really have time to read the information in the folder, but it didn’t matter. They’d memorized it days ago.

They picked up their equipment bag, feeling thankful that the spring in Nevada was cool, and it wouldn’t look strange for someone to be wearing long black sleeves at night. They waved goodbye to Vash as they sprinted out of the door, the squeal of brakes announcing the arrival of the bus. Just in time.

After taking a much-needed shower, Vash sat on the bed closest to the TV and poured herself a drink. It had been hours, and she had a headache she knew only alcohol could stave off. She found something halfway interesting to watch and settled in for the wait. There was no telling how long it’d take – ghosting was a slow a careful task – but she refused to sleep until she knew Ohache was home safe.

“An’ ya will get home safe,” she muttered aloud to herself.

This wasn’t their first job together since Vash had extended the hand of partnership to Ohache, but most of the jobs they went on were hers. Before tonight, Vash had always been there beside them. Everything had been within her control. Now, Ohache was by themself.

The night drug on, the television became less and less interesting, and the shadows started creeping into the hotel room.

The room was so quiet. Too quiet. Where was Ohache? Why hadn’t they let her know they were back yet? It had been hours. Where were they?

_Maybe they got hurt, maybe they got shot, maybe they needed me and I’m not there._

She sat up, wrapping her arms around her legs. _No, they’re fine, stop it. You’re just drunk and you’re tired and they’re fine, they’re fine, you can survive a couple hours without them right next to you. They’re a capable adult, they can handle themselves without you right up their ass._

_But they don’t know how to use a gun._

She’d only had a glass of scotch, and it wasn’t enough.

\---

Her phone lit up, vibrating across the end table. Again and again it buzzed, but Vash didn’t hear it. 

It stopped moving, the light on the front slowly pulsing. A moment later, it lit up again, continuing its trek across the end table. By the fourth call, it fell off of the table with a loud crash.

Vash sat up with a start, the room moving slower than her head. She fumbled around for the phone, finally answering it. “Yeah?”

“I have a problem.”

Vash’s heart dropped, her head instantly clearer. “What’s wrong?”

“So I got a little…beat up, and it’s probably not a good idea to get back on the bus home.”

"Beat up…” Her voice sounded weak in her ears.

“Are you drunk?” Ohache sounded irritated. “I called four times and you only just now answer and you can hardly talk to me.”

“Nah…nah I’m good. I dunno. Where are ya?” Her head was going too fast, her mouth couldn’t keep up.

“I just started walking down some road. Uh…” There was a pause as Ohache jogged up to the nearest street sign. “Sonoma?”

Vash opened her laptop, bringing up the satellite map. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” It wasn’t that far from the hotel – maybe a ten minute drive.

“I don’t want to get in the car with you if you’re drunk.” Ohache’s voice was full of spite, and Vash hated herself.

“I ain’t drunk, I ain’t had a drink in hours, I was sleepin’.” It wasn’t quite the truth. She had slept long enough to burn off most of the alcohol, but she probably wasn’t legal.

She found the address she needed. “Go to da Super 8 at the end of Sonoma near da highway. I’ll pick ya up there.”

Ohache was silent.

When Vash found Ohache they sitting on a bench outside the front office, one hand in their pocket, one holding their phone, backpack slung over their shoulder, looking uncomfortable in the security light. She didn’t like this. It was too early in the morning to be doing suspicious shit like this. What were the prostitution laws in Nevada? Because this definitely looked like she was picking up a little boy at a cheap motel.

When Ohache got close enough to the car to open the door, Vash saw why they were trying to hide them.

“Holy shit what happened?” Vash gasped involuntarily.

Ohache slid into the car, removing the other hand from their pockets, sucking in air sharply.

“There was a dog wandering around where I came in at, so I jumped the fence. Didn’t see the razor wire ‘til it was too late.” Angry red gashes covered their hands, and Vash could see darkened fabric on the sleeves of Ohache’s shirt.

Vash didn’t know what to say, she just felt like crying. The wounds were scabbed but cracked as they moved their fingers to buckle up, blood dripping down their hands. She should have been there. She should have gone with them, or at the very least not drunk herself unconscious.

“Ya ok otherwise?” She asked.

“Yeah. Got the shit. Wasn’t hard, really, just wish I’d known there was wire on top the fence.” They shrugged. “You did say I’d get tiger stripes.”

They drove in silence the remainder of the drive back to the hotel, Vash thankful that keeping her car on the road was taking most of her mental faculties, because the panic was nipping at the back of her head.

“We got any alcohol here?” Vash realized what she was asking. “That ain’t for drinkin’?”

“My suitcase,” Ohache replied quietly.

She found it easily, then came back to Ohache, kneeling on the floor in front of them. They sat on the bed, holding their sliced up hands out, letting Vash press alcohol-soaked cotton into the cuts.

Tears sprang to Ohache’s eyes, and Vash died a little more inside.

“None of ‘em look real deep,” Vash observed, turning Ohache’s hands over. The thick leather gloves had helped protect them. “Gonna suck to heal, though.”

“I’ll live.”

Vash looked up into Ohache’s eyes. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just…in pain right now.”

Vash didn’t believe them.

She wrapped up Ohache’s hands in a bandage, an added protection in case they came open while they slept.

Ohache watched as Vash stood up and started undressing for bed, crawling onto the cheap hotel mattress and curling up, faced away from them. It had already been unmade, meaning Vash had been asleep when Ohache had called. Anger boiled inside of Ohache, but they couldn’t bring themself to say anything.

_I could have been dying there, trying to call her to save me, and she’d have slept right through it and let me die._

Ohache lay down in the other bed, too irritated to get undressed.

Vash didn’t fall asleep for hours after she heard Ohache’s breathing settle into a slow rhythm. Her head hurt, her stomach felt sick. All she could think about was the pain in Ohache’s voice on the phone, the angry red cuts on their hands, the betrayal in their face.

They’d have to talk about it in the morning.

They didn’t.

\---

“Get in, Mitts, we have to go to the wild n’ wooly land of,” Vash paused for dramatic effect, splaying her fingers out near her face and making an arc with her hands. “California!”

Ohache had a determined look on their face, despite the dark circles under their eyes from the lack of sleep. “I’m gonna punch so many waves!”

“Ya can’t punch waves, Ash.”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ do it! I will be the first person to punch a wave. And maybe some seashells.”

“You have fun doin’ dat with ya broke ass hands,” Vash laughed. “I ain’t gonna comfort you when ya remember the ocean is made of salt.”

“Aren’t we going to Denver next? Then Houston? I forgot how much you drive when you work.”

“My car has like a million miles on it an’ it’s only like five years old,” Vash said. “I try to take care of it though, an’ that’s probably da only reason why it still runs.”

“Why not just fly? It’s probably cheaper and definitely takes less time.”

Vash gazed lovingly at the Mustang emblem set into the steering wheel. “I dunno. I ain’t a fan of planes, really, especially not after nearly crashin’ one. I don’t really mind drivin’; my car’s fun. Though ya have a point - last thing I want is my pony breakin’ down on me in the middle of the fuckin’ desert. I should learn mechanic stuff.”

“As long as we’re still the Road-Trippin’ Renegades I’m happy,” Ohache said, plugging their phone into the auxiliary jack and queuing up something to listen to.

“Mmm, not your best idea,” Vash said, frowning at the road.

“The Bosom Buddies?” Ohache’s voice was hopeful.

“That sounds like a shitty kid TV show, Ash.”

Ohache crossed their arms. “I’m gonna think of something eventually.”

“You have the entirety of this cross-country criminal spree ta think about it; you’ll come up with somethin’.”


	10. Chapter Ten

_June_

Yorrick took a breath before pushing open the door to Benvolio’s bedroom, a manila folder with Ohache’s name written on it under his arm. He didn’t want to have this conversation, but have it he must.

Benvolio had been rubbing his head with a towel, hair wet and unstyled after a shower. His face lit up when Yorrick stepped into the room, and he tossed the towel onto the bed and padded over, craning his neck to see what was in Yorrick’s hands.

“Whatcha got for me, Big Y? Hopefully something that will make both me _and_ Hattie happy, because I’m actually about to choke a bitch.” His laugh was strained, and Yorrick knew he had existed almost entirely on cigarettes and coffee for a week straight. Neither of them had gotten much sleep.

Yorrick handed him the folder. “It took ages to find them. I know where all their apartments are in Indianapolis, but with them doing so much work with Vacherie lately, they’ve been hopping all over the East and Gulf coasts lately.”

“Fantastic. Glad to hear they’re having a good time gallivanting across the country. Did you actually get in contact though?”

Yorrick sighed. “No. They’re not answering their phone again.” He’d called them what felt like a thousand times over the past week. Every time they’d hung up on him before it reached voicemail.

Benvolio growled, turning to his desk and spreading out the contents of the folder. “Looks like we’re gonna have to do this the fun way.”

Yorrick felt worry tighten in his chest. Ohache was delicate, and Benvolio’s tactics were less than gentle even on the best of days. _If you’d answer your phone,_ he thought, _this wouldn’t have to happen._

“Ben-“

He turned around, leaning against his desk, dropping his head back between his shoulders, water dripping down between his bare shoulders. “Look. I don’t feel like doing this shit either, but if I let them ghost me, everyone else is going to think they can get away with it, too. It’s part of being the boss.”

“Still, can you at least be a little less…” He trailed off, waving his hand vaguely.

“Myself?”  
“Yeah. Please? Just this once? For me?”

Benvolio stared at Yorrick for a long moment, struggling with his internal dialogue with himself. He looked like a steam cooker filling up, holding his breath, searching his companion’s face. Yorrick met his eyes, begging him silently to go easy on the person he once called a friend.

Finally, Benvolio released his breath. “Fine,” he said, turning away in a huff. “You owe me, though.”

“Fine.”

Benvolio thumbed through the papers, skimming through the information within. Numbers, dates, past work, GPS coordinates. “Alright, so they’re with the Cajun bitch, and the two of them are in…Texas?”

Yorrick nodded. “They had a job in Houston, apparently, and took a detour to the beach in Galveston.” He looked at his watch. “It’s a three-ish hour flight to Houston, and a what, hour and a half, two hour drive to the island? I’m just guessing here. I’ll see if there’s a private airstrip any closer.”

“Then we gotta actually find ‘em.” Benvolio’s eyes narrowed as he mulled over details in his mind. “What’s the range on the trackers again?”

“About a hundred miles or so. If we can get onto the island, we can find them. If they have their phone, anyway.”

“Call the pilot then. See when he can get us there.”

Benvolio’s hand went automatically to his left breast, fingers touching bare skin instead of the inside pocket of his jacket where his cigarettes usually were. He frowned, eyes darting around the room.

“On the balcony,” Yorrick said. “Where you left them. You’re almost out, though.”

Benvolio muttered something that may have been a “thank you” before shoving the door open and disappearing down the stairs.

Yorrick let himself drop down onto the edge of the bed, pushing his fingers into his hair, the sound of the balcony door sliding open echoing up from downstairs. _I’m sorry Ash, I’m so sorry._

\---

Vash lay in the hotel bed, sunlight filtering through curtains, dust motes cutting through the beams, making patterns on the walls. The air here was thick and humid, clinging to her lungs and sticking the sheets to her legs. Next to her, she could feel the light rise and fall of Ohache’s breathing, fingers twitching slightly in their sleep.

She sat up, pressing a finger to her temple against the headache that had lasted for days. Sometimes pounding, usually just a dull ache, but it was always there, driving her mad. Carefully and quietly as she could, she draped her legs over the edge, standing up with as little movement as possible. The cheap mattress squeaked, and Ohache stretched out, inhaling, rolling over, curling up, but never waking.

There was water in the fridge, not really cold, but enough. She sat on the floor in her shorts and her tank top, drinking it, wishing there was more kick, wishing it would make her warm inside, the feeling of not caring she wished she had. She would have taken an ibuprofen, but the pills had long stopped helping her.

Vash looked at the clock. Just after ten thirty in the morning. Why was she awake? Her head ached. Outside, the gulls were screaming.

On the bed, Ohache inhaled sharply, and Vash sat up, straining to see their face, making sure it was just breathing and not one of the nightmares that plagued her young partner. Just breathing. They moved one of their hands, and Vash could see the freshly healed scars dark against their skin, and she became aware of the weight in her chest that seemed to never leave. Her head hurt. There was usually a bottle in her bag, but she refused to take one this time. The look on Ohache’s face when they noticed had simultaneously filled her chest and emptied it.

It was early June, and they were in Galveston, in a hotel on the Seawall. It was Vash’s idea; a mini-vacation to the beach for Ohache on their way back from a job, her way of trying to make it up to them for Nevada. This beach was not great, but it was it was the best she could do right now.

Walking into the bathroom was like swimming through the air, and Vash knew that the instant she stepped out of the shower she would be sticky and sweaty again, but she didn’t care. She needed to do something to take her mind of the throb in her skull.

\---

The sky had given up its resistance, spilling its contents onto the Gulf Coast sand as Vash and Ohache drove along the Seawall. Ohache stared out the passenger window at the tempestuous ocean, long, low waves crashing against the dull brown sand, the sound of the windshield wipers beating a slow rhythm in their head.

They could feel the heaviness in the atmosphere, could see it in the lines behind Vash’s eyes, the dark circles that she had given up trying to hide with concealers. They hadn’t spoken much, and the pills were beginning to fail at keeping the dread from pushing its way up Ohache’s throat.

“Hey, y’alright?” Vash was looking at them out of the corner of her eye, brow wrinkled slightly in that way that Ohache noticed but no one else did. 

“I’m just tired.” Ohache knew she could tell it was a lie.

She smiled weakly, turning into the parking lot of a restaurant that had seen better days. But the parking lot was full, and the people seemed happy, and Ohache knew that their partner knew this area better than they did.

After they’d ordered and sat down in a corner booth, Vash fixed Ohache with her eyes. _Please don’t look at me like that. Nothing good ever happened when someone looked at me like that._

“Ya sure yer okay?” She asked. 

“I’m fine.” _Please stop please stop please stop please stop-_

Vash sat back. “Alright.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “God, my head is poundin’. I ain’t had a drink since we left Nevada an’ my body ain’t enjoyin’ it.”

Ohache looked up from their soda. “Why not?”

“I got tired of drivin’ with hangovers.” Something in her voice was strained.

They felt like crying. “Oh. I just thought you were mad at me or something,” Ohache said, trying to laugh off the anxiety that had been plaguing them.

Vash looked surprised. “Hell no. Y’ain’t done nothin’ to make me mad.”

The waiter walked up at that moment, laying down a tray of pizza that smelled like heaven, interrupting Ohache’s thoughts. Vash’s good judgement won again – the pizza tasted as good as it smelled.

They ate in silence for a few moments, then Vash set her slice down on a plate. “Sorry this vacation ended up bein’ shitty. I was hopin’ even though the beach sucks the weather would still be nice so ya could get that coastal atmosphere.”

“Bro, it’s fine,” Ohache replied around a mouthful of pizza. “I appreciate the thought.”

She looked out of the window, watching the rain turn the Seawall slick. “Maybe it’ll let up enough to take a walk this evenin’ at least.”

“Lex, that’s gay.” 

She leaned forward to take a drink, smiling coyly. “Yeah? An’ yer cute.”

Ohache opened their mouth to reply, but the words never made it out.

“Well, well, fancy meeting you here,” came a voice that made Ohache’s heart drop to their toes. A hand slapped down on their shoulder, fingertips squeezing uncomfortably into their collarbone.

Across from them, Vash shifted her position to allow her access to the handgun Ohache knew was in the waistband of her jeans, her eyes narrowing, her shoulders tightening. “What the _fuck_ are you doin’ here?” she snarled.

“Same as you, _mon chéri_ : trying to make a little money.” Ohache could hear the shit-eating grin spreading across the man’s face, and longed for the courage to punch it off.

Benvolio slid into the booth next to Ohache, dropping his arm around their shoulder, holding them uncomfortably close. They could smell the expensive cologne clinging to his blazer.

“I also wanted to apologize for what happened earlier this year in Florida…terrible mistake that was. I feel awful about it.”

Vash did not relax. “I’m sure ya do.”

“No, really, I’m being honest!” He pulled off his sunglasses, folding them and hooking them into the collar of his shirt. Maybe he thought it made him more sincere. “It’s terrible what happened out there. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and I really do feel bad about putting a virus on that plane. I could’ve killed someone.”

“What do ya want, Benvolio?” Vash’s voice, flat and low, made Ohache’s skin prickle.

He patted Ohache’s arm. “I’m here to offer the two of you a little apology money, if you’re willing to do some less than honest work.”

Vash stood up. “No. Thanks for the offer though.”

Benvolio gripped Ohache harder, uncomfortably, pressing his fingers into their thin arm. “Oh, come on, Vacherie, let’s be friends. Take a li’l puff on the peace pipe or whatever the kids say these days.” He turned to Ohache, giving them a counterfeit smile.

Ohache could not say anything.

“We are not, an’ never will be friends, Benvolio. Thank ya for the offer, but we have other things to do tonight.” Vash’s hand rested on her hip, ready to reach behind her at any second.

He dropped his voice. “Listen. It’s not my first choice either, but Ohache is _my_ employee. Not yours, not the Net’s. And I need them to do their goddamn job for once in their life.”

“I asked off-“ Ohache started.

“And I’m asking you to come in on the weekend.”

“If you do not get yer hands off of Ash I will pull out a gun an’ make a huge scene in this restaurant an’ blame it all on you,” Vash hissed, fingers brushing the handle of her gun.

Benvolio stared at her with cold black eyes, but finally he released Ohache, and they felt as though they might pass out. “Well, I’m sorry we could not come to an agreement.” He dipped his head to Vash. “I hope we meet again soon.”

When he was safely out of the restaurant, Ohache finally released the breath they’d been holding. They stood up, grabbing the last slice of pizza and their drink, eyes wild. “Let’s go.”

Vash did not argue.

\---

Galveston was rather disgusting, Yorrick thought, compared to the pristine white beaches of Benvolio’s vacation cottage in Florida. The sand was brown and littered with ocean trash and dead fish, and the water wasn’t much better. The black rental car was parked outside of a pizza place that Yorrick was ashamed to admit that he’d have thought twice about entering. Benvolio had infected him; they only ate at high-end restaurants.

Benvolio seemed excited, unable to sit still in his seat. “Okay, okay. Here’s the game plan: We’ll go in and try to do this nicely, but if we have to we’ll rough up Red and their girlfriend and get the hell out before the psycho bitch can pull a gun on us.” He scowled. “They were so much easier to deal with before they ganged up with Vacherie.”

Benvolio opened the car door, and Yorrick went to follow him, but his employer waved him back. “Nah, nah, I can do this. Just stay here and keep the car cold, okay? It’s fuckin’ hot out here.”

“Ben, remember you promised me…”

Benvolio made a face at his driver. “I know, I know, Jesus. Don’t you trust me?”

 _Not when you’re manic,_ Yorrick thought, watching helplessly as Benvolio sauntered up to their corner booth. The look of terror on Ohache’s face sent pangs through his chest. He longed to throw open the door, grab them, and drive away, but he had a job, and his job was to stay here until Benvolio came back.

He’d have to make it up to them some other way.

\---

Ohache was visibly shaking in the seat of Vash’s car, struggling not to cry. “How did he know we were here? How did he know where I was?” _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, did he bug me?_

Vash’s eyes were narrow, staring out at the rain, fingers gripping the steering wheel too tight. “I don’t know, but I swear to god I’m gonna find out.” Her head hurt even worse now, and she was ready to kill someone.

Vash’s words only somewhat soothed Ohache’s mind. _He’s going to kill me, I’m going to die, he’s going to hunt me down and kill me and I’m too much of a coward to fight back and shoot him and I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die…_

“Get yerself together, Ash, yer gonna be okay.” She was driving too fast. She didn’t trust for a second that Benvolio was going to let them walk after telling him no. She didn’t know him that well, but she knew enough to get the idea that whoever refused Benvolio’s offers paid for it. The look on Ohache’s face told her all she needed to know about any times they may have refused in the past.

Vash held Ohache’s hand tightly as they sprinted from the car to their hotel room in the rain, pushing the keycard in, throwing themselves inside, locking every lock. Ohache dropped onto the bed, breathing coming in short, heavy gasps. Vash dropped down in front of them, holding their face in her hands.

“Hey, look at me, listen to me. Yer fine. I’m not gonna let him touch ya.” She looked right into Ohache’s eyes, waiting for them to focus. “Do ya hear me? I swear to every god in existence if he tries to hurt ya I will kill him.”

Ohache met her gaze, the acceptance just showing through the panic. They believed her, even if their brain didn’t.

There was a knock on the door, and Vash drew her gun. Quietly she crept across the room, peeping through the hole. “Fuck, it’s him.” she hissed under her breath.

Ohache looked like they might faint.

She ignored the knocking, opting instead to toss items into their suitcases.

“I’m giving you one more chance, Ash,” he called through the door. His hands were in his pockets, designer sunglasses on his face.

“ _Casse-toi_!” Vash barked.

“I wouldn’t talk like that to me, sweetheart, I have too much dirt on you and your little fuckbuddy in there.”

“Ignore him,” Vash muttered, as much to herself as to Ohache, who was struggling to stay connected to this universe.

“So what about this, what if I throw in like, I dunno, like five extra grand? I mean all I want you to do is sneak in somewhere and steal something, like, you do that all the time right?”

Vash continued to ignore him.

“Alright, fine. But you know you owe me, both of you, and if you don’t want to do your job…” He pulled one hand out of his pocket, gesturing to something to his right. “I’ll make you.”

She turned to Ohache, walking over to them, pressing their face into her chest. “Be brave, Ash.”

That was when the window exploded, and Vash was thrown into Ohache, slamming them both down onto the bed.

The impact momentarily knocked Vash unconscious, and when she woke up, she was lying flat across a motionless Ohache, and her shoulder was on fire. Glass was littered all over the bed and floor, and she felt sticky. Her head pounded.

Behind her she heard the crunching of glass and male voices.

“Well, the bitch is out, take care of the kid and let’s go.”

A hand grabbed Vash’s shoulder, sending waves of agony through her arm, yanking her back away from Ohache. Her good arm swung around and connected firmly with the face of Benvolio’s henchman, causing him to stagger backwards, blood erupting from his nose. In the confusion, she pulled her gun out of her waistband, pointing it directly at Benvolio’s face.

“Get. The _fuck._ Out of my hotel room, Benvolio. Or I swear to _God_ I will kill you.”

Benvolio’s hands flew up, but his expression was not one of fear. While the man who had grabbed Vash was still fighting to stop his broken nose from bleeding on his suit, Vash did not see the other one standing behind her with his fist drawn back until stars exploded from behind her eyes, and she fell in a pile on the glass-strewn floor.

Ohache heard everything from a thousand miles away. The breaking glass, the yelling, the sickening thud of Vash being punched in the back of the head. Their body was jerked up, slapped in the face, pulling them out of the air and back inside. The momentary peace was replaced by intense panic.

“Listen to me, if you want your precious family to stay in the dark about who you are, you’re going to do what I tell you to, whether I pay you or not.” Benvolio was hissing in Ohache’s face, but they only heard every other word. Regardless, Ohache nodded, the world around them moving too fast.

Benvolio let go of them. “Good. I expect this done by tonight.” He pushed a manila envelope into Ohache’s hand.

He turned to walk out of the hotel door. “Oh, and you might want to clean up around here a little, Red. Before the cops show up.”

Ohache’s hands were shaking uncontrollably, and they dropped the manila folder onto the ground. Their eyes traveled downward, and saw Vash’s prone body, blood covering her back and side.

They dropped to their knees, ignoring the glass slicing through their jeans.

“Lex? Lex are you awake?”

She did not reply.

_Fuck, I’m gonna have to do this._ Ohache grabbed the keys of Vash’s car, pressing the unlock key, hefting her up on their thin shoulders. Slowly, Ohache dragged Vash out the door and into her car, pushing her into the passenger seat, ignoring the river of red washing down onto the concrete by the rain.

They threw their luggage together as quickly as they could, then climbed into the driver’s seat. Shaking hands pushed the key into the ignition, firing the Mustang to life, putting the car into reverse, backing slowly out of the parking spot, trying to ignore the horrid grinding sound from under the hood. They dialed a number on their phone, letting the automatic answering machine pick up, then ended the call. By now, GPS coordinates were being sent to the cleaner, and hopefully they’d arrive before local law enforcement to remove anything pointing the incident to them.

Ohache put the car in first gear, the engine groaning as they clumsily manoeuvred the clutch, and stutteringly inched forward through the parking lot. Their heart threated to leap from their chest. The busy Seawall loomed before them, and a low rumble rolled through the sky, bringing with it an additional layer of rain.

The car lurched down the main road, the criminal gods smiling upon the terrified redhead in the driver’s seat, trying not to get pulled over, trying to find some place to pull over where they could hide, where they could make sure Vash was alive.

Eventually, the busy town and traffic gave way to rows upon rows of towering technicolour beach houses, and the hard drop off to rocks and ocean turned into soft dunes and beaches. Intermittently scattered around were dirt and sand roads, just wide enough for a car to fit, leading to the beaches. Ohache turned the car into one of them, the engine groaning against the sand and Ohache’s untrained hands.

They breathed a sigh of relief as they were able to park the car and escape its loud, lunging embrace. 

\---

Vash woke up as the car jerked to a halt, being yanked from a repetitive dream about eating crawfish with her family into the reality where her head was exploding and her arm was on fire. She could hear the rain pounding against the windows, then on her, as someone opened the car door. She looked up, the act of moving her head creating ice picks in her skull, and saw Ohache’s terrified face looking down at her, jeans torn, scrapes along their arms.

“Oh my god, you’re alive,” Ohache choked, falling into her, shaking uncontrollably.

She patted their head, wincing against the onslaught of pain from every inch of her body. “’Course I am, I ain’t goin’ nowhere just yet. Takes more’n a shot shoulder to put me down.”

Ohache couldn’t reply. The pent up emotions from the past several minutes broke over them, and Vash simply combed their wet hair back with her fingers, ignoring the rain falling into her car, soaking the carpets.

Finally, Ohache lifted their head. “Shit, I forgot the envelope at the hotel.”

Vash could not hear their thoughts, but they were written plainly on the kid’s face.

They started pacing in the rain. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, he said to have it done by tonight and I don’t even know what it was, I didn’t even look, I was too worried about getting out of the hotel before someone saw anything,” They pulled at their hair. “Fuck you, Ash, God dammit, you forgetful piece of shit.”

Vash grabbed Ohache’s arm and pulled them down into the sand next to her. “Calm down. Ain’t nothing ya can do about it now.”

Ohache sat in silence, mentally berating themselves against Vash’s wishes.

Vash shut the door of her car, shifting her weight to set herself gingerly in the sand next to Ohache. Carefully, she pulled off her shirt, biting back tears as the destroyed fabric peeled off of the wound in her shoulder.

The rain had washed away most of the blood, and now the wound was clearly visible – a huge open gash that started near her shoulder blade and arced up over her collar. If she’d been standing straight up, the bullet would have punctured through her carotid artery, and she’d have bled out in seconds. Instead, she would have one hell of a scar to add to her collection.

“I’m gonna need a needle,” she said with a grimace.

Ohache stood up, reaching over Vash’s head to retrieve the first aid kit they kept in the glove compartment, pulling out one of the disposable stitching needles and alcohol. It wasn’t great, but there wasn’t time to clean it properly. There never was, in their line of work. You just poured isopropyl on the wound, sewed it up, and kept amoxicillin on hand in case it went sour.

Vash turned around, her back to Ohache, bracing herself. “Ya know how to do this, right?”

“I was a taxidermist, of course I do.”

Vash turned looked over her shoulder. “I ain’t a dead animal, Ash.”

Ohache replied by pouring alcohol on Vash’s wound, forcing her to bite her hand.

They worked fast, their practiced hands pulling Vash’s skin together deftly, though they were unsure about their sutures. When they were done, Vash leaned against the door of her car, breathless and light-headed. Ohache fell into the spot beside her, and together they watched the ocean as the rain died down to a light drizzle. The rainclouds dispersed, allowing rays of pink and orange light to spill through the gaps, lighting the horizon on fire.

Vash smiled through her headache. “At least the sunset is nice.”

Ohache murmured their agreement.

“Sorry this vacation sucks even more’n it did earlier.”

“It’s fine.”

“I promise I meant for it to be fun an’ not terrifyin’.”

“It’s _fine_.”

“I’ll take ya to Cancún sometime to make up for it, okay?”

Ohache gave a strained laugh. “Really, I just want to go home.”

“I can do that.”

Ohache lay their head on Vash’s undamaged shoulder. “If I had to almost die with anyone, though, I’d rather it be you.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Me too.”

After a moment of silence, Vash laughed softly. “I can’t believe ya drove my car an’ didn’t destroy it.”

Ohache groaned. “It was literally a miracle I didn’t get pulled over because I was lurching all over the road.”

“Remind me when we get home to take ya to the Winn Dixie parkin’ lot an’ teach ya to drive somethin’ that ain’t a plane.”

“I think I’d rather let you drive from now on. I’ll stick to walking.”

\---

Yorrick swore an oath two years ago that he would protect Benvolio with his life, but at this moment, he was beginning to reconsider that promise, even if it did mean he’d probably end up in a ditch.

No sooner had Benvolio shut the car door than Yorrick set into him.

“Are you _fucking insane_?” He yelled, louder than he intended.

“What? They started it.”

“You fucking _shot her_ , Benvolio! What part of that is ‘not being a huge fucking asshole’ to them? Did you even listen to anything I said?” He was shaking.

Benvolio lit a cigarette. “Yeah, I heard, and I decided to do it my way because shit wasn’t getting done your way.”

Yorrick couldn’t say anything.

“Look I know you two fucked or whatever when you were teenagers-“

“They’re my _friend_ , Ben!”

“That won’t answer your calls, apparently, or did you forget?” Benvolio growled. “When was the last time you two even said two words to one another?”

Yorrick’s voice was low and dangerous, and he didn’t turn to look at his passenger as he spoke his next words. “I asked you - I _begged_ you - to take it easy on Ash just this fucking once. And instead you went and shot their partner and probably gave them the worst panic attack they’ve had in years. I sit back and say nothing while you do a lot of fucked up shit to a lot of people, but I can’t be compliant to you torturing someone I care about.”

Benvolio studied him through narrowed eyes. “That’s awfully hypocritical for someone who used to go to church.”

Yorrick finally looked over at him. “Let them go, Ben. I’ll find someone else to do the job. I’ll even call them for you and handle the details so you don’t have to worry about it. Hell if I can’t find anyone to do it, _I will_. Just leave them the fuck alone.”

“I don’t want-“

“Ben, please. Do it for me. Just this once.”

\---

Ohache’s stomach felt sick as they watched the black sedan pull up along the road, headlights illuminating the reeds.

“So, I hear you’re quitting.”

Ohache’s hands were trembling, but they struggled to hold it together. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

Vash stepped from around the car, pointing a gun at Benvolio’s face. “’Cause they ain’t yer puppet no more.”

Benvolio rolled his eyes. “Let’s not get violent, alright? Put the gun down.”

Vash gestured with her eyes to her blown open shoulder, which was now wrapped in a bandage. “We’re beyond gettin’ violent, Benvolio.”

“Oh, did I shoot _you_? I just meant to shatter the window and scare you a little-“

Vash pressed the pistol to Benvolio’s forehead. “You need to shut the fuck up right now, or I will leave yer corpse on this beach to be cleaned by the gulls an’ any stray dogs that happen by.”

Benvolio looked her in the eye. “Right. You got anything more threatening? I wouldn’t particularly mind dying on a beach.”

Vash pulled the hammer on her pistol. “Get in yer car, an’ sit in that seat until we leave, an’ then yer gonna go back to yer li’l castle in the sky in ya big ass city, an’ yer gonna find someone else’s life to shit on, ‘cause if ya ever show up near me or Ash again, yer gonna regret all of yer shitty life choices. _Comprenez-vous_?”

He put a finger to the barrel of the gun, pushing it away from his head. “Alright sweetheart, whatever you want. Not like I’m losing my best ghost or anything, but you’re what, twenty, twenty-one now?” He looked at Ohache, who did not give any indication of the accuracy of his guess. “I guess you’re all grown up and don’t need me anymore, huh?”

He turned, making a motion with his hand as though he were tipping a hat. “Y’all have a nice evening, now.”

Vash had to force herself not to shoot him in the back.

When he was safely back in his car, Vash squeezed Ohache’s hand, tugging them gently back towards her car. “Come on, let’s get outta here.”

\---

“All that money, right through my fingers,” Vash lamented, dropping her phone in the cup holder of her car. “I can’t believe Benvolio fuckin’ shot me, don’t he know I got a job to do an’ can’t afford to take days off?”

“Better lose a few grand than get an infection and have to be hospitalized,” Ohache said absently, thumbing through a playlist on their phone. “Besides, I think we’ve had enough excitement for a month. I need a vacation.”

“An’ I s’pose my house is yer vacation home?” Vash grinned. Ohache had spent more time on Vash’s couch than in Indiana lately, and that fact hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“It’s homey and has a pool.”

“It’s a hot tub.”

“When it’s off, it’s a one-person pool.” Ohache put their nose up at Vash. “Also you have a big yard, you don’t complain about the dead animal smell, and you live there.”

“It’s my house, of course I live there.”

“No I mean…I like being with you. You’re cool, bro.” Ohache’s face flushed, and they went back to their phone, not meeting her eye.

“Oh.” An awkward, loaded silence fell between them. “Yer an ok kid, too,” Vash finally said.

The silence persisted, and Ohache turned increasingly bright shades of red. Vash was afraid they might combust.

“Yes, ya can move in with me,” she finally said, laughing at Ohache’s horrified reaction. “Since I know ya got no more reason to be in Indianapolis.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t, I don’t, I mean I do, but, I’m not, not like that-“ They stammered, trying to catch their mouth up to their head.

Vash put a hand on their shoulder. “Hush. I don’t wanna fuck ya, Ash. I mean as friends.”

Ohache fell back into the seat. “Oh, thank God. I’m not…into that.”

“Obviously.”

There was a pause. “Thanks, Lex.”

“Eh.” She shrugged, hiding the pounding of her heart. _It makes sense for business_ , she told herself. _Having Ash in Indiana makes it difficult to coordinate jobs. Living in the same house will be convenient. It just helps that they’re actually enjoyable to spend time with and you get horribly lonely when they go home._ But the voice in the back of her mind laughed. _You keep telling yourself that._

Ohache’s eyes widened. “I have to tell my parents.” They quickly picked up their phone, staring in horror at the screen for a long minute. “I don’t know what to tell them.”

“The truth? Ya got a new job in Louisiana an’ are movin’ in with me ‘cause I live close and we’re friends, or whatever.”

“They’ll want to come visit.” Ohache looked pale.

“I’ll be sure an’ sweep up da cat hair. Ash, there’s nothin’ in my house that says what we do for a livin’ except the secret basement under my bed. It’s fine.”

Ohache tapped the number.


	11. Chapter Eleven

_July_

Ohache felt the anxiety rise in their throat as the pushed the key into the door of one of their remaining apartments and pushed it open. They had originally been more than a little annoyed that they were unable to break the lease, but the silver lining now was that this place was available as somewhere to sleep that wasn’t a hotel for the weekend they were here in Indianapolis.

“Cozy,” Vash quipped, tossing her bags on the floor.

This apartment wasn’t one of the nicer ones. There were too many layers of paint on the wall, the dishwasher required a ritual to run, and Ohache wasn’t even sure if the fridge was functional.

Ohache gave her the finger as they opened a window, snorting as dust and spider webs released into the air. The air that drifted into the apartment was just as hot, but at least not as stale.

Vash dropped to her knees and started rifling through her bag, spreading out their equipment onto the floor around her. They were here on an extracurricular ghost job, partly because they were getting cabin fever and needed to get out of the house for a bit, partly because it was in Indianapolis, and it gave them an opportunity to gather up the last of Ohache’s belongings from around the city.

The past month had been peaceful. Benvolio hadn’t bothered them Ohache had quit, and they and Vash had relished in Vash’s annual summer vacation. Most of their time had been spent unpacking her junk room, hanging up art and decorations, putting together the ancient wooden bedframe so that Ohache had somewhere to sleep more comfortable than the couch. They’d even brought a few things from their display apartment - a couple of skulls, some clothes, an old handmade quilt that their grandmother had made for them years ago. Slowly, the room began to feel like their own.

It was jarring, going from somewhere they felt at home, back to this cold, empty apartment and all the memories that hid within.

Vash started pulling things out of her bags, spreading them out on the floor around her. It was all Ohache’s equipment – lockpicks, jammers, camera wires-

“When did we get stealth Kevlar?”

“Since ya decided ya was gonna go ‘round robbin’ people without a gun.” She tossed one at them. “Our other ones are too bulky to wear under clothes.”

They pulled the vest on over their head, wriggling their way in. “It’s tight.”

“Yeah, well. That’s how they’re made.”

Ohache sighed and tightened the chest strap. “It’s a good thing I’m already used to not being able to breathe.”

“Better than bein’ dead,” Vash muttered, buttoning up a yellow collared shirt. 

They finished dressing in silence, pulling on jackets, shoes, Vash shoving more guns than necessary into concealed holsters. For once, the job description didn’t involve a black turtleneck and a balaclava, being more of a reconnaissance mission than any actual robbery, and they were both relishing in the opportunity to wear a suit. So much so that Vash had gotten them reservations at some fancy-ass restaurant for dinner on their way back.

Vash handed Ohache a handgun and a holster, the look of fear in their eyes unmistakable. “Better safe than sorry, Ash.”

“I don’t plan on adding to my kill count,” they mumbled. The last time they used a firearm still haunted them at night, the dire wolf relegated to a corner of their room that couldn’t see from their bed.

“I hope ya don’t hafta, but...” Vash said, pushing the gun into their hands. She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Ohache wasn’t the only one unable to sleep at night.

They pushed the gun into the back of their waistband. “Yeah.”

Vash turned away from them, frowning at the Kevlar vest peeking out from underneath the three open buttons on her shirt. She could button them, but the look just wasn’t the same when the shirt closed up to her chin. “I’mma need one o’ yer ties, Ash.”

“I only brought one of them,” Ohache replied, pulling the knot tight around their neck. “And baby blue doesn’t go with dark purple.”

“If yer colourblind it does,” Vash mumbled, buttoning up her shirt.

“Just put a necklace or something on under the collar and you’ll look fine.”

“Yeah Lemme jus’ reach up my ass an’ pull out the string of pearls I keep up there for special occasions.”

“Or you could use these.” Vash looked down from the wrist where she was snapping a diamond watch to her wrist to see Ohache, red as their hair, holding a string of gold pearls to her. “I thought they’d match your shirt.”

Vash held up the necklace, stunned. She normally wasn’t big on jewelry, but the sincerity on her partner’s face, and the 24 karat gold pearl-sized beads intermittently set among the real pearls were glittering in the light of the shitty ceiling fan and making her skin prickle.

Ohache was going to implode. “Also you let me live in your house and I wanted to repay you, I mean that’s what people who are friends do right they buy each other stuff, except I didn’t actually buy that, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should have bought it, is it okay? Do you like it?”

Vash put her hand over Ohache’s mouth. “Yes. Hush before ya get yerself too worked up.”

Ohache nodded.

An alarm beeped on Vash’s phone. Quickly she swiped it off, shoving it into her purse before securing the pearls around her neck. “Get ya bullets an’ whatever else ya carry with you ‘cause we gotta go or they’ll give our table to someone else.”

“No, no, no, no, wait, no, hold on,” Ohache slithered out of Vash’s grip, eyes wide as they followed her down the stairs to the car. “I’m still not old enough to drink.”

“Oh my god Ash, we ‘boutta do some illegal shit an’ yer worried about tellin’ da waiter ya don’ want wine with yer dinner?”

“Yes.”

Vash stared at them. “ _Ma dieux_.”

“I don’t want to be rude, bro. It’s a fancy restaurant!”

“Ash, _I_ will drink yer wine if ya feel bad ‘bout orderin’ it. Though honestly if this is somethin’ ya worry about, ya might wanna develop a taste.”

“I have sworn to stay clean until I am twenty-one.”

“So half a bottle of bourbon don’t count?”

Ohache frowned. “We do not discuss the bourbon.”

Vash unlocked her car and pulled open Ohache’s door. “Jus’ order somethin’ that ain’t red, okay? I hate red wine.”

Ohache slid into the seat, trying not to wrinkle their slacks. “There’s an alcohol you don’t like? I’m astounded.”

“This comin’ from the criminal who refuses to drink ‘cause they’re only twenty.”

“Morals, Lex. _Some_ of us have morals.”

She gave them a sideways smile as she eased out onto the highway. “Why d’you think I don’t drink red wine?”

\---

“Are you coming _today_?” Benvolio’s voice echoed across the foyer of the building, almost as loud as the clacking of his heels across the marble. What did he have on those Oxfords, taps? And for fuck’s sake, why is his only volume lately ‘too fucking loud’?

Yorrick’s spiteful thoughts were interrupted by his employer finally clacking his way to the door that Yorrick was holding open for him. He blew past like a Category 5 hurricane, and Yorrick knew this wasn’t going to be a good night. Not that he expected otherwise.

Despite the approximate gallon of expensive cologne, the inside of the limo quickly began to reek of smoke. Yorrick wished he could roll up the divider, but he knew he would hear it later, and honestly, all he wanted to do right now was go home and get wasted. Benvolio was on his last nerve.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Benvolio growled up to the driver’s cabin.

Yorrick suppressed a cocky response. “Yes, I’ve got the address in my GPS.”

“Then why is it taking so fucking long to get to the highway?”

“Because we live in the middle of downtown and it's Friday, _sir,_ ” Yorrick grumbled, stepping up the speed on the limo ever so slightly to appease his employer.

When they arrived at the restaurant, Yorrick braced himself for damage control amongst the staff. Benvolio was always an entitled asshole, but when he was stressed, it only got worse. And he’d been stressed lately with a capital S.

Hattie was sitting at a corner table, her harsh features and short cropped hair unmistakable. Benvolio slid into the seat in front of her while Yorrick stayed behind momentarily to apologize for his employer’s rude demeanor to the hostess. By the time he sat down, Hattie and Benvolio were already into it, hissing insults at one another in slang terms and low voices.

A waiter came, and Yorrick almost passed up the wine menu, but Benvolio was pointing his fingers at Hattie’s face, and Yorrick decided to order something deep, red, and strong.

\---

Vash didn’t need Ohache to tell her when Benvolio and his driver arrived at the restaurant. The terror-stricken look on their face told her everything she needed to know.

“Stop looking over yer shoulder, it’s too obvious.” Vash took another sip of wine. “Just ‘cause yer hair needs re-dyin’ don’t mean one of ‘em wouldn’t realize who ya are if ya keep starin’.”

Ohache was paling. “Why are they here.”

“Crazy coincidence,” Vash mumbled. 

“You…you planned this, didn’t you?”

Vash shrugged. “Heard through the grapevine that he had some kinda meetin’ here an’ figured it’d be a good opportunity to get some info. Or revenge for shootin’ me an’ torturin’ ya, either one.”

“Or we could just forget he exists,” Ohache said, their voice tight. “I’m really just content to never deal with him again.”

“Then you just sit back an’ enjoy dinner an’ let me get what I came here for. I’m payin’, anyway.”

\---

Yorrick was on his second (or was it third?) glass of wine when he noticed Vash sitting at a nearby table. His blood ran cold momentarily. If she was there, then things were going to get really interesting, really quickly.

Beside him, Benvolio and Hattie were losing steam in their argument, slowly but surely starting to behave like normal, rational adults. They weren’t getting anywhere negotiation-wise, but at least they were speaking somewhat calmly to one another. Yorrick could see Benvolio sweating under his collar though, and he gave it ten minutes before his employer excused himself for a smoke, and Hattie laid into Yorrick instead. He was hoping it wouldn’t have to happen, because he had to stop drinking soon in order to be able to drive home.

“Frankly, Benvolio, I am growing weary of the inconsistencies in your business dealings,” Yorrick heard Hattie say, leaning back in her chair, heavily shadowed eyes half-closed.

Benvolio balked. “What do you mean?”

Hattie looked at her wine, one eyebrow raised. “I _mean_ , for your grossly uneducated ears, that unless you gain some consistency in your work, and some actual decent quality employees,” she looked up to Yorrick with a pitiful look on her face, “Not you, darling, you’re wonderful,” she turned back to Benvolio, “that I will be forced to cease our business deal and seek out another distributor for my products. Frankly, I find you to be a bad image for my company…”

“So you’re firing me.” Benvolio looked as though he were about to start steaming from the ears, cartoon style.

“Mmm,” Hattie looked thoughtful. “Well, I wasn’t, but now that _you’re_ saying it, it sounds like a good idea.”

“You can’t _fire_ me! How are you going to move your product?”

“Are you truly so vain that you think you are the only person who does what you do, and that you are the only person to do it well? I could have a thousand yous in an hour if I simply called the right people.” She laughed to herself. “Not that you even do what you do well.”

“Listen here you insolent _bitch_ -“

Hattie put her wine down. At a table next to them, a man in a black suit stiffened, and Yorrick became aware of the bulge against his chest.

“You listen here, _dog_ , if you ever speak to me in that way again I will cut your tongue out and feed it to you myself.” Her eyes burned black. “We are done here.”

She stood up abruptly, and her bodyguards did the same. “I am sorry that we could not come to an agreement,” she said stiffly, tossing her napkin onto the table before turning sharply towards the door and walking out.

Benvolio was not satisfied with the negotiations. He stood, bumping the table and causing the dishes to clatter loudly, but he ignored the noise, darting after Hattie, slipping between Yorrick’s fingers which had reached up to grab his coat sleeve.

Yorrick pressed his fingers to his nose. He would be paying a lot of people compensation tonight.

\---

“Autobots, roll out,” Vash hissed, slapping a hefty tip under her wine glass as she jumped out of her seat at the sight of Benvolio bulldozing his way to the door. Ohache’s heart rate skyrocketed, hands immediately shaking as they followed Vash’s brisk steps through the restaurant. They had no idea what she was planning, but whatever was going to happen was going to happen really soon.

When they emerged into the humid nighttime air, there was little sign of Benvolio and his companions. Above them, the sky periodically exploded in coloured fire, filling the air with the smell of gunpowder. Ohache caught a glimpse of Yorrick turning a corner near the valet, and darted forward, Vash hot on their heels.

Benvolio was calling after Hattie, begging her to reconsider, groveling, almost literally, at her feet. She was staring at him, a bored look on her face, ready at a moment’s notice to call on her bodyguards to snatch Benvolio like a bug from the air and smash him.

Ohache was frozen in place, unable to process any semblance of an idea of what to do. Vash was next to them, pressed against the wall, a look on her face that they didn’t like.

“He talk big shit but he dunno how to follow up,” she mumbled.

Something in the air didn’t feel right. Hard as she was, Ohache sincerely doubted that Vash would kill a man in cold blood. But neither did Ohache think she would try to negotiate. Still, she’d brought them here to do something.

“This would be a real good chance to get one of yer stressors outta yer life, wouldn’t it?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Ohache’s hands were shaking. “Please, I just want to leave.”

“Well, I don’t.”

\---

“Ms. Hattie, do you need us to remove this guy?” The taller of Hattie’s bodyguards popped his knuckles threateningly, a cliché act, but effective nonetheless.

Hattie turned her nose up at Benvolio. “No, go on your way boys, this one isn’t worth the time.”

“Ben, we should just leave,” Yorrick said, catching the sleeve of Benvolio’s jacket gently. “I can open that scotch you’ve been saving-“

Benvolio responded by slapping Yorrick’s hand away. “No, we aren’t done here.”

Hattie slid into her car’s driver’s seat. “I believe that we are.”

“Aw, come on Hattie please, we can work something out-”

“I don’t believe that we can, Benvolio. How about we just say goodbye here and you may leave with some shred of your dignity intact.”

Yorrick knew his boss was dangerously close to snapping, he _knew_ , and when Benvolio reached into Hattie’s car window he blamed himself for allowing the situation to get this far. He should have drug Benvolio away ten minutes ago, and now he has a bloody nose for trying to pull his employer out of Hattie’s window, and Hattie’s guards aren’t around.

Hattie didn’t have time to call out before Benvolio’s hands were around her neck. Yorrick’s head was still floating from the wine, and the elbow to his face wasn’t helping his cognition. She was clawing at Benvolio’s face, and Benvolio was hanging on.

Yorrick thought he might have yelled something, he forgot in all the confusion, reached for his employer’s coat, trying to pull him away from the car, ignoring the blood pouring out of his nose, dripping onto his tie. Benvolio fought him, his thin frame betraying his strength. Above them, the sky lit up bright blue and red and green, the local fireworks display reaching its climactic finale.

The air reverberated with artillery fire, crashing off the walls of buildings again and again before dissipating into relative quiet. In the chaos of the fireworks, Yorrick didn’t even hear the gunshot that snapped Benvolio’s head sideways. His employer slumped against the door frame, his hands slacking just enough from Hattie’s neck for her to peel him off and gasp for breath.

Yorrick lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Benvolio’s chest, lifting him up and out of the window. There was blood, so much blood, Yorrick had shot so many people, just like this, but when it was Benvolio it was different. There was so much blood. Too much blood.

His head popped up just in time to see Ohache, standing just out of the shadow, holding a handgun and looking like they were about to pass out. Before Yorrick could process what he was seeing, they disappeared into the darkness, snatched away from the parking lot by someone just out of sight.

\---

Ohache was panicking. Vash was pushing them forward, telling them she was going to get the car, stay here, and Ohache grabbed her sleeve and begged her not to leave them. And she stayed, slowing her pace and walking to the car, Ohache’s arm looped around hers, trying to seem casual, just two people on a date, holding one another close.

Her heels echoed on the sidewalk like nails pounding into Ohache’s ears, and the click of the door lock sliding open was more welcome than it had ever been. When the engine roared to life, Ohache finally let go.

“What the fuck, Vash, what the _actual fuck_?”

“He was boutta kill that lady!”

Ohache was indignant. “You probably just killed _him_ , Lex!”

She snorted. “Good riddance.”

Ohache didn’t know what to say.

Vash glared ahead at the road. “Ya can’t jus’ blame me, _you_ had the gun out. Ya don’t pull a gun out without the intention to shoot someone.”

“I…I…didn’t _want_ to kill him.” As they’d turned to walk away, Hattie’s strangled alarm cry triggered an automatic reaction in them, and they found themselves spinning around, drawing their gun, ready to fire. It was this realization that caused them to falter, the horrible feeling of knowing they almost killed someone, _again_ , and their resolve failed. And that was when Vash grabbed their hand and fired the trigger for them.

Vash sighed. “Look, I know yer tryin’ to be some Daredevil criminal guy where ya don’t hurt people or whatever, but ya gotta understand that in dis line of business, sometimes shit has to happen. Sometimes ya gotta shoot the guy shootin’ ya first. Sometimes ya gotta rid the world of a piece of shit waste of space like Benvolio to keep other people safe.” She saw the look on Ohache’s face. “So I shot him.”

“With _my_ gun.”

“It was quicker’n pullin’ mine out.”

“That was in _my_ hand.”

“I didnt think takin’ the time to take it from ya would fare well for that lady.”

“ _My hand_ , Alexis!” Ohache was gripping their left wrist tightly in their right hand. “Your sins are now on _my_ precious left hand!”

“I’ll take ya to the church down the road when we get home an’ ya can dunk it in the holy dog bowl.”

She knew her attempt at humour had fallen short when she looked at Ohache and saw the look in their eyes. Disgusting, accusatory. She wanted to curl up and die.

Then, before she could blink, it was gone.

“It’ll take more than holy water to clean these hands,” they said, giving her a tight grin. “They’d have to baptize me in it.”

“At least yer actually redeemable,” Vash replied, rolling with it, despite the tightness in her chest. “I think if I walked in a church again I’d jus’ drop dead immediately.”

The headlights of her car illuminated the gate to the apartment complex, and Ohache handed her the keycard to get in. In the courtyard, a group of people were standing around a firing tube, lighting fireworks into the sky, sipping cold drinks and enjoying the warm air.

“I still can’t believe you did that,” Ohache mumbled as the two of them climbed the stairs into the apartment.

Vash felt uneasy. She’d lived with them long enough to learn some of their quirks. They were only this calm when they were covering something up.

“Think of it like one less thing to be scared of,” Vash said. “Maybe ya lil’ buddy Yorrick will be the head of whatever cartel Benny runs an’ he’ll be less shitty to everyone around him.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

She stripped out of her suit and threw on a t-shirt and pajama pants. “Stop wit’cha _boo-day’_ in an’ let’s sit on the patio an’ watch the fireworks.” She smiled, hoping Ohache didn’t see the worry behind her eyes. She couldn’t shake the memory of that look on Ohache’s face, so brief, and so telling. _What have I done?_

She dragged her young companion out of the sliding glass door onto the balcony of Ohache’s empty apartment, not surprised at the collection of spider webs and mud dauber nests in the corners, the door itself seemed to be glued shut by time and dirt. The balcony overlooked the common area of the complex – a grassy patch of land between the plain gray buildings where children played on nice days.

Vash ducked back inside, returning with a coke for Ohache and a glass of whiskey for herself.

After a long moment, Ohache said, “I’ve never actually ever sat out here before. It…actually has a nice view for a shitty apartment complex.”

Vash took another drink. “Glad I could be part of the moment.”

Her voice was tinged with a sarcasm she’d begun to develop in her everyday rapport with Ohache; she was likely genuinely happy to be with Ohache in this moment, though she found it amusing that they put so much importance on something so seemingly insignificant. They didn’t know how to explain to her how many nights they lay in bed, paralyzed in fear of what could come through that window? She probably wouldn’t understand at all. Nothing scared Vacherie. That’s probably why they were still here, sitting on the balcony, trying to ignore the stinging in their hands.

Vash looked up at the light show in the sky, feeling Ohache next to her, drinking a little too much, a little too fast, absolutely terrified that maybe this time she’d gone too far.

\---

Yorrick sat in the corner of Benvolio’s hospital room, sipping at some smuggled booze and reading a fifty cent book. A third-tier crime “thriller,” if you could call it that, but it was helping the time pass anyway, his mind’s narrator drowning out the repetitive beeping of the heart monitor.

A knock pulled him from the book. The list of people who would bother to visit Benvolio was painfully short, and Yorrick was all but stunned by the mess of faded red hair that greeted him when he opened the door. _Of all the possible people._ They stood sheepishly at the door, holding a pie tin and their shoes in their hands. Had they snuck into a hospital? It seemed outrageous enough to be true.

“Hello, Ash.” Yorrick said, his voice coming out dry and gritty. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard Ben was in the hospital. Thought I’d stop by.” Their voice was careful, controlled.

Ohache took a breath, and then slid down in the chair. It was the same move they pulled in high school when a teacher was angry at them, to make themself as small and low as possible. It was an almost too obvious reaction to being stressed and afraid, and Yorrick knew it too well. Even back before every day was a struggle, they had never been relaxed, and being little more than ten feet from the man who threatened to ruin their entire existence didn’t seem particularly comforting.

“Uh huh. Where’s Vacherie?”

“She’s back at my apartment.” The methodical whirring and beeping of the hospital only deepened the silence. “She doesn’t know I’m here.” 

Ohache held out the pie tin, filled with some crumbly raisin dotted bread. It looked homemade.

Yorrick took the tin, setting it on Benvolio’s bedside table. “So. How’d you know we were here?”

He watched the blood drain from Ohache’s face.

“I…I heard it from someone on the Net.”

“He was admitted four hours ago.”

“Word travels fast.”

Yorrick set his drink on the bedside table, leaning forward on his knees. “Ash. I saw you.”

They broke. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me, it was Vash! She…I didn’t know…” They dropped their head between their knees, lacing their fingers through their hair. “I didn’t know about anything. I thought we were just out to dinner.”

“It sure looked like you were the one who pulled the trigger.”

“She used my gun. While I was holding it.”

“Sure.”

Ohache’s head snapped up, their eyes blown, bloodshot, fighting tears. “Why would I shoot him? Why would I shoot _anyone_? You should know me better than that.”

“Why did you have the gun out in the first place?”

Ohache opened their mouth to make an excuse, but they knew it was pointless.

Yorrick stared at his hands in his lap. They were too different from when he and Ash were friends. Too much had changed from when they had just been idiot kids. God, what he wouldn’t give to go back to those days.

Ohache coughed, and began to speak. “He’s… Benvolio, he’s not gonna die, is he?” The anxiety and fluorescent lights painted them pale as a ghost.

Yorrick looked to the sleeping man. “The doctors… they think he’ll make it. Between his money and the multitude of hitmen ready to raise hell, he better.”

Ohache sighed with relief. “I don’t actually…want him to die. I want him to fuck off, yeah, but…” They trailed off. “Please don’t tell him it was us.”

He sighed. “I won’t.”

Ohache dropped their head to their hands. “God, when did this become us? When did we stop worrying about finals and bad teachers? When did murder become an actual option to solve a problem? Holy shit, what happened to make us like this, Toby?”

Yorrick sighed, and didn’t look up. “I don’t know, Ash. I don’t know.”


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Part Two: Things We Lost in the Fire**   
>  _November_
> 
> Apparently the room was cold. They couldn’t feel their hands anymore, couldn’t feel the pressure on their wrists, couldn’t feel the judging glares of the people around. Couldn’t feel anything.  
> Around them, however, people wore coats and rubbed their hands together and glanced around them as if a dirty look in the right person’s direction would make the thermostat magically rise, and the room would warm. But everyone knows that they keep these buildings frigid even in winter to make everyone uncomfortable.  
> Sitting behind that podium was a woman with a stern face, listening intently to a man in a suit talking. They had long since stopped listening, hearing only the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the high-pitched squeal of the CRT TV that was somehow still functional on the wall, the sound of keys being pressed, writing down every word that was said for future reference.  
> Next to them, a man sat, glancing back at them repeatedly, knowing they were a lost cause, but he had to do his job. Either way, he got paid.  
> Blue eyes stared straight ahead, through the wall, through the floor, down to a hell only they could see as the man finished talking, and the woman shuffled her paperwork.  
> Their head buzzed as the woman in the black robe spoke, judgment in her voice, authority in her words, as she listed their crimes for all the world to hear, tearing open that part of them that was never supposed to be seen.  
> Each word was a nail in the coffin they’d been building for years. Aggravated assault and battery, first-degree murder, armed robbery; every word driving them further and further into the ground.  
> They didn’t need to hear the verdict. They already knew. They knew the moment they picked up the rifle in their hands and stepped around that corner.  
> “I hereby pronounce you guilty of all accused crimes.” She looked up to meet the blue eyes below her. “Your sentence will be decided at a later date.” She dipped her head, eyes cold and dark. “Good evening, Ms. Walsh.”

* * *

_September_

Ohache woke up before Vash, coming to consciousness slowly. They expected to hear the now-familiar sounds of blackbirds screeching in the reeds, of the rooster crowing down the road, the sound of the screen door creaking open onto the back porch.

Instead, they heard the low hum of traffic and people talking, the rattling of a railcar, the plod of a horse’s hooves on paving stones.

They sat up, pushing their hair out of their eyes, watching the sunlight filter through the blinds, pooling across the wooden floor of the hotel room. Vash was still unconscious, curled up behind them in a sleep deeper than Ohache would ever hope to accomplish outside of death. She only ever looked at rest when she was asleep.

Silently Ohache padded across the floor to the suitcase in a corner, pulling on their clothes, noting that they were already sticking to their body, the humid fall air not offering any relief from the never-dropping temperatures.

On the nightstand, Ohache’s phone buzzed, and they swiped it absently. They recognized the number, but silenced the phone anyway. They didn’t want to talk to him.

They came here to get out of town for a while, to have something to do, a mini vacation that hopefully won’t go awry before the holiday season starts and work gets busy. Get some history, some culture, Vash said.

Ohache stared at the little phone symbol dancing until the call terminated, the light on the front pulsing slowly. _You have one missed call._

This was the third time he’d called in as many days, and Ohache knew at some point they should answer the phone, but they would rather drown than face the possibility of having to discuss the tragedy that was their trip to the hospital.

Vash stirred behind them, rolling onto her back and pressing her palms into her eyes. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Ohache said, leaning over her, grinning.

She groaned.

Ohache found it hard to feel sorry for her, but the look on her face when she pulled her hands away was pitiful. The perpetual dark circles under her eyes were deep and purpled. This may have been the best sleep she’d gotten in weeks.

They poured a cup of water from the tap, handing it to her before sitting back down next to her on the bed.

She hesitated for a moment, debating the benefits of hydration versus the taste of heavy metal, but decided that not having a pounding hangover was not worth complaining about the flavor of water. She drained the cup in one go.

“I lost my tolerance,” she said, handing the cup back to Ohache to refill.

“That’s probably a good thing,” Ohache said from the sink. “Your liver thanks you.”

“My head is tryin’ to kill me,” she groaned. “I ain’t even drink that much.”

“You drank almost a half a bottle of whiskey, Vash.”

She met Ohache’s eyes. “I used to drink a bottle of whiskey a _night_ , Ash. Halfa one ain’t a lot for me.”

“And soon you’ll only be able to drink a glass a night before you’re tipsy, and I will make you an entire cake as a reward.”

“Why would I ever want to only be able to drink one glass of whiskey?” She felt thirsty, even though she was drinking water.

“Because you’re going to die of alcohol poisoning when you’re thirty and then who will I hang out with?” Ohache’s words were said jokingly, but the worry was in their eyes.

Vash didn’t hear what they were trying to tell her. All she could see was the scars on Ohache’s hands.

“Sweet of ya to think of me livin’ to thirty,” she said with a strained grin. “I expected to finally take that last bullet around twenty-six or so. When ya start gettin’ old an’ slow.”

“Don’t say that,” Ohache said, voice flat. “Please don’t say that.” _You aren’t allowed to die before me_.

“I’m not gonna die, Ash.”

“You don’t know that.”

She laughed. “The only way they’d kill me is if I got caught, an’ I ain’t plannin’ on that happenin’.”

“Famous last words,” they said, tracing the scar on Vash’s shoulder with a finger. When the trail was finished, they leaned their head on her back, wishing they had the courage to press closer to her. “That’s why I’m a ghost.”

“Yeah, I know.”

\---

“They’re avoiding me again,” Yorrick said, frowning at his phone. “Ever since they visited at the hospital they refuse to answer my calls.”

“Maybe they like you,” Benvolio muttered, stretching his legs across Yorrick’s lap. The movement still made his head throb, even though he’d had the stitches out for months.

Yorrick sighed. “More than likely they’re trying to forget I exist again.” It was a pattern he’d seen before. Ohache seemed to whole-heartedly subscribe to idea that disconnect was better than ever dealing with their problems. The momentary show of vulnerability followed by radio silence wasn’t new, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

“What a loss.” Benvolio’s voice was dripping in sarcasm.

Yorrick shot his employer a look of pure ice. “Don’t be a dick, Ben. Ash is my friend. Or was. I don’t know anymore.”

Benvolio was nonplussed by Yorrick’s words. “Dude, you didn’t talk to them for like two years or whatever and all of a sudden you decide it’s time to get back together? This sounds like the shit women would yell at each other for doing.”

“I just…realized I miss them, I guess. We grew up together, survived high school together. Just feels like a shame to let that go to waste, y’know?”

“What is with people and high school friends? I always thought that was some kind of overused movie trope.”

Yorrick dug his elbow into Benvolio’s shin. “You didn’t even go to school, so of course you don’t understand.”

Benvolio shrugged. It was true. He’d had a private tutor while growing up that gave him his lessons in the comfort of his own home.

Yorrick’s smile faded. “Seriously, though, I just…want to talk to them. Explain some stuff.”

“Like what?” Benvolio leaned forward, trying to hide the wince of pain as he did so. His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Your insatiable lust for power that drove you to me?”

Yorrick gave up trying to be serious. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he laughed, pushing Benvolio back into the mattress, pinning him down with one arm. “Your dad gave me a huge raise for taking this position.”

“What position is that, hmm?”

“The one that’s supposed to remind you that you’re still not supposed to exert yourself.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“No, but I am your bodyguard, and it’s my job to make sure you don’t get hurt.”

Benvolio hooked his hand around the neck of Yorrick’s shirt. “Boss says to take the night off.”

\---

“So there’s like, actual ghosts here?” Ohache looked up at the buildings around them. They were ancient, seeming to crumble without actually being damaged, wrought iron and brick and stucco overlooking cobbled street with names Ohache struggled to pronounce.

“Yup. Not seen any myself but there’s signs everywhere for hotels n’ shit that ain’t haunted. Or are. Some people don’t seem to mind the ghosts.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I met a ghost,” Ohache said, walking a little closer to Vash down the busy French Quarter street. “Are they friendly?”

Vash shrugged. “Some are I guess. Not all of ‘em are. There’s a lot of …whatever ya call it. Spiritual juice here. Voodoo an’ shit. It’s an old city built on the backs of slaves an’ I can’t imagine they’re all happy about it.”

“So why are we here again?”

“’Cause if yer gonna live in Louisiana yer gonna have to come at least once.” Vash put an arm around her partner’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect ya from the scary ghosts.”

Ohache knew she was making a jab at them, but inside they felt warmer.

They walked along the bank of the Mississippi River, the sounds of jazz and chatter filling their ears as they talked about nothing and everything at once, a rare moment of them being simply two friends on vacation. No job to focus on, no Kevlar under their shirts, no holding their hands to the guns in their belts.

Vash dragged Ohache into a seat at Café du Monde, flagging down a waiter and demanding beignets, stuffing the sugar covered doughnuts into their mouths, careful not to inhale.

“I came here that night before ya came over the first time,” Vash said, licking powder off her fingers. “It wasn’t quite as pleasant as this.”

“What even happened with that? You never told me.”

Vash shrugged. “I didn’t check a safe ‘fore I drilled it an’ got my shit wrecked.”

Ohache pointed their beignet at her. “I have taught you better than that.”

“Yeah, _now_. Back then I ain’t hardly knew ya.” She smiled. “I could prolly do that job right now, but I don’t have to ‘cause that’s what yer here for.”

“I feel so important,” Ohache said with a full mouth.

Vash looked up at her friend, the front of their shirt covered in white powder, beaming at her compliment. They looked happy, and Vash realized that this sight wasn’t as rare as it used to be.

Her attention wandered, her gaze losing focus behind Ohache’s head. The lights flashing across their face, the music that floated through the city, the cool evening breeze that pushed her hair in front of her eyes.

“Hey, you listening to me?” Ohache waved a hand in front of her face.

Vash snapped her attention back to Ohache. “Sorry, I got distracted…” her voice trailed off.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

Vash gave her friend a crooked smile. “The fact that yer smilin’.”

Ohache froze, beignet in hand, eyes wide in the fading light.

She laughed at them, leaning her chin into her hand, and Ohache blew sugar on her.

When the beignets ran out, night found them walking through Jackson Square, arm in arm, looking for something to entertain them, some place with lights and music and alcohol and money. The city was still alive, and people still milled about the park, taking shitty blown out flash photos of one another with the statue in the center, dark and dramatic.

“You need one in the front yard,” Ohache said, looking up at the statue. “It’s your aesthetic.”

“I don’t do horses,” Vash replied. “We don’t get along.”

“How do you drive a Mustang and dislike horses?”

“My car don’t try to throw me out of it if I try an’ point it somewhere it don’t wanna go,” Vash replied, laughing.

“Yorrick used to like horses,” Ohache said, softly. “He always kept up with the races, even before he had money to bet on them.”

“Buy _him_ a statute then. I’m sure Benny’s got room for it in his penthouse.”

“Meh.”

A cloud had settled over Ohache’s face, their eyes dark as they looked up at the fountain. 

She took their hand, forcing them to look away. “Forget him. Let’s go walk through a graveyard or crash a casino or somethin’.” _I don’t want to see you sad right now_.

Ohache’s eyes lit up, unable to stay irritated when Vash’s hair was lit up with lamplight and there was someone in the corner of the park playing a saxophone. Worry dripped away as she pulled them alongside her, taking them to yet another busy street, disappearing into the crowd to play.

Ohache had never seen the inside of a casino, and the cacophony of light and sound was almost overstimulating for them. The walls were as neon as the machines themselves, flashing and glowing and playing 8-bit tunes as people pressed buttons and pulled arms. Ohache was slightly surprised to realize that there was no sound of clinking coins accompanying the win chimes – all the machines took money cards.

They weren’t brave enough to wager any of their hard earned money, but Vash ordered a whiskey and slid into a Blackjack table, pounding twenty dollars on the table and making triple that amount back by the time she called it quits.

She spun the card between her fingers, satisfied with herself.

“I can’t believe you actually made it out of there with a profit,” Ohache said, sipping a soda. Their hand was stamped with a red roulette wheel: the mark of someone too young to drink alcohol.

“Jus’ for that I ain’t buyin’ ya nothin’ with it.”

Her glass had run dry, and she steered herself toward the bar, handing the bartender her card.

Ohache frowned at the glass as the bartender refilled it, but said nothing.

“Last one, I swear,” she said, taking a larger drink than most people would have been able to handle.

“I’ll make sure it is.” Ohache’s face was stern.

“Yer better n’ AA,” Vash said wryly, taking another drink.

The two of them leaned against the bar while she finished, Ohache gazing off across the distance, enraptured by the lights. Vash found herself studying their face, the way the neon made their cheekbones light up, the shadows of their jaw deeper than they had been when they first met.

Ohache noticed her staring at them, and met her eyes. They spoke to her, but she didn’t hear. She was staring at something beyond her friend’s face.

Behind Ohache, sitting alone at a table drinking a cocktail, was Yorrick.

Ohache followed her gaze, seeing the all too familiar mop of blonde curls, freezing in place.

Vash nearly knocked the barstool over as she stormed over, slamming her hands down on the table, fire in her eyes.

“The _fuck_ are you doin’ here,” she hissed.

Yorrick’s head snapped up from his phone, free hand reaching down to his waist before he realized who it was. “Holy shit,” he breathed.

“Don’t ‘holy shit’ me, Yorrick, I don’t believe for a second that yer just here by coincidence.”

Yorrick glanced behind him, seeing Ohache’s terrified face for a split second before they turned around, back to him.

He looked up at Vash, reaching into his pocket and producing a pair of gambling tickets. “I’m not following you I swear. I mean, I was planning to call or come talk to you guys in person soon, but I’m just here for the races.”

“Benvolio here?”

“At the hotel. Not here.”

Vash relaxed slightly, falling into the seat across from Yorrick and crossing her arms in front of her.

“So why ya wanna talk to us? Why can’t ya just leave us alone an’ go back to ya lil’ asshole boss or whatever an’ let us be in peace? I thought ya said we were done with you two.”

Yorrick sighed, setting his phone on the table. “I…owe Ash a few explanations.” 

“’Bout how ya let Benvolio nearly kill us at least twice?”

“Among other things.”

Yorrick stood up, grabbing his book from the table and draining his coffee before walking over to the bar where Ohache was trying to avoid him, Vash jumping up to follow him. He positioned himself in front of them, trying not to box them in, but making it obvious he didn’t want them to leave.

“We need to talk.” Yorrick said, voice quiet as he could get it while still being heard over the band.

Ohache met his eyes, and he could see the debate in their mind. _You’ll feel better afterwards, I promise._

Vash positioned herself beside Ohache, arms crossed, standing over them like a mother hen. Ohache looked up at her, seeing that she was tense, but not threatened, her jaw set, arms crossed in front of her. She wasn’t happy, but she wasn’t afraid of Yorrick. He was big, but she had a temper.

“Yeah,” they said finally, quietly.

Vash met Yorrick’s eyes. “Ya lay a finger on them an’ yer brains are on the wall.” Then, to Ohache: “Call me if ya need me.”

“I promise I didn’t follow you,” Yorrick said, sipping a fresh cocktail. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I know, I took the tracker out of my phone.”

They had moved to a quieter area in the casino, a lounge that wasn’t filled with the sounds of machines. It made it easier to hear one another, but not so easy for others to hear them.

The awkwardness was palpable in the air, thicker than the fall humidity.

_This is ridiculous_ , Yorrick thought. He leaned forward, putting his hands toward the middle of the table. “Ash, what’s wrong?”

Ohache looked up at him, his brown eyes peeking out from curly hair that needed a trim. He looked so much older now, lines beginning to form on his face from the life he chose to live. They remembered when he was round-faced and chubby, just a freckled kid with sticky fingers who just wanted to have fun.

“Is it because of Ben?”

Ohache sighed. “It’s not so much Ben as…you. And Ben.”

Yorrick leaned back in his chair. _Ah_. “What about me and Ben?”

Ohache hesitated for a moment, trying to find the words in their mind.

“Why…are you still there?” It was the politest way they could think to phrase it. “He’s so…awful. You used to complain about him to me every day, and then you take the job as his bodyguard? For fuck’s sake, Toby, he tried to kill me _and_ Vash.”

“It’s not that easy...”

“What isn’t so easy? That your employer tried to kill your friend and you’re okay with that? Or wait, I guess I’m _not_ your friend anymore since you dropped off the face of the fucking earth after you got promoted.” Ohache’s eyes burned.

“No, you are…I mean he didn’t…” He made a frustrated sound. “I got _busy,_ Ash.”

“Busy with _what_? Following Benvolio around and kissing his ass because you’re a greedy piece of shit who would do anything if it got you paid?"

Yorrick prickled. “Like you aren’t with Vacherie for the same reasons.”

“She actually has some redeemable qualities.”

“And so does Benvolio.”

Ohache was silent. Yorrick laced his fingers together and sighed. “I accepted the offer of being his bodyguard because I needed the money. Mom’s bills were more than we thought, and my sister wants to go to medical school. I…wanted to be helpful.”

“You didn’t have to _stay_ , Toby.”

Yorrick sighed. “It got complicated after that.”

“Complicated?”

“Turns out he’s human too, behind closed doors.”

“Oh, I’m sure he's a saint when nobody's looking.” Ohache’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

Yorrick fixed Ohache with a glare. “It’s kind of hypocritical of you to be angry at me for keeping a position with Benvolio when your girlfriend is just as much of a loose cannon as he is.”

Ohache opened their mouth to argue, but they knew he was right. “I just don’t understand why. Why did you not talk to me anymore? Why did you never ask me to work with you again? Why did you just let us die? After all those years?”

Yorrick put his hand on Ohache’s. “You know how you always loved to watch cartoons, and when you found one that you really liked, it became your life? And all you ever did was think about that show?”

Ohache nodded. They understood his point clearly.

“I didn’t mean for work to get in the way, I swear.”

Ohache pulled their hand away. “But you did, and it did, and now you’re trying to be my friend again and I…” they balled up their fists, frustrated, unable to say their feelings. “You let him try to kill me.”

“I told him to calm down-“

“You let him _try to kill me_ , Toby!” Ohache was near hysterics. “And you let him shoot Lex, and…How on earth do you expect me to be okay with this?”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you here?”

_You sound like her_ , Yorrick thought. “Because I miss you.”

Ohache’s word caught in their throat. Fresh tears sprang to their eyes, and they dropped their head to the table. From somewhere beneath their shaking breaths, they managed to squeeze out , “I miss you too.”

Yorrick touched their arm, fighting the urge to pull Ohache across the table to him. “I want to make up for all that shit I did wrong.”

“I don’t know if you can.”

Vash was standing near the lounge, playing on her phone to hide her anxiety at whatever was happening behind the dividing wall. When Yorrick walked out alone, she bristled, ready to slug him in the face.

Yorrick nodded to her, hands in his pockets. “They’re fine. If you ever need anything from us, let me know.”

He stepped around Vash, but she ignored him, swinging around the corner, eyes darting around in the dim light. She found them still face down in their booth, shoulders shaking ever so slightly. She slid into the seat next to them, putting a hand on their shoulder.

“Hey, y’alright?”

Ohache didn’t look up. “No.”

Vash looked at her phone. It was late. “Let’s get outta here.”

\---

“So what did he want?” Vash asked when they got back to their room.

“To talk about stuff,” Ohache replied, pulling off their shoes.

“Like what?”

“Like stuff, Lex.”

Vash took the hint.

Ohache didn’t bother to undress, curling up under the blanket of their bed fully clothed. The lights flicked off, and they were left alone in the dark, the sound of Vash’s breathing and the soft murmur of distant voices outside the only things they could hear.

Flashes of the conversation with Yorrick kept flitting through Ohache’s head, their chest feeling tight. They missed the Toby they used to run with, the Toby with the wide smile as they pulled their black shirts on, the Toby that would press his back to Ohache’s, protecting them as they unlocked something complicated.

How could he sit back and let Ben do the things he did to them? To Vash? True, she was loud, she was angry, she was an alcoholic, and she was probably a sociopath, but…

Ohache’s thoughts were disrupted by pressure on the edge of their bed. Their breath caught in their throat as Vash lay down next to them on top of the comforter, back to theirs.

“You were whimperin’,” she said, her voice gritty with sleep.

Ohache’s heart jumped into their throat, eyes brimming with tears.

_She’s probably a sociopath, but she’s actually_ here _with me._

Images of Yorrick sitting vigil over Benvolio’s prone form in the hospital sprang to Ohache’s mind. Almost a day straight he sat there, head down, waiting. How happy he looked when he’d told them he’d been promoted all those years ago. The way he looked at Benvolio when they were together.

There wasn’t really much difference between them.

Ohache rolled over, tossing off their blanket confines, wrapping themself around Vash, pressing their face into her shoulder blades, their fingers into her skin, holding her as tight as they could with shaking arms.

Through the fog in their head, they felt her gently pry the fingers of one hand from her arm, pushing her fingers between theirs, holding them tight.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_October_

Ohache stretched their arms wide, rocking up on their tiptoes, inhaling deeply. They’d been on the road for nine hours straight, and their legs felt stiff from sitting. On the other side of the car, Vash was doing the same, releasing a high-pitched trill from her throat as she reached the peak of her stretch.

She crossed her arms as they dropped, rubbing her hands over her skin.

“Jesus, it’s cold up ‘ere,” she hissed, cursing her decision to wear a tank top despite the fact that it was nearly eighty just two states south.

The two of them unloaded the car, dragging overladen suitcases and bags of equipment up two flights of stairs and into the motel room. It was one of the nicer shitty rooms, a small microwave tossed haphazardly in a corner, and a CRT TV that Ohache was convinced they’d get cancer from if they turned it on.

“One o’ these days we’ll stay in a hotel that’s got both a fridge an’ a microwave,” Vash said, tossing her load onto the bed furthest from the window. Neither of them bothered to unpack their belongings. In twelve hours they’d be back in the car again.

Vash turned on the TV, ignoring Ohache’s wince at the squeal it made. It was on the news station, and she wasn’t interested, but the TV wasn’t on to watch.

She pulled a manila envelope out of her suitcase, spreading out its contents across the bed. She motioned to Ohache to join her, and they obeyed, wiggling in beside her, crossing their legs under them to take up less space.

“I still can’t believe we’re stealing shit from Elvis,” Ohache muttered, picking up a page of information and mulling over it closely.

“Them collector types is somethin’ else,” Vash replied. “They’ll do anythin’ to get what they want.” She gave a sly glance at Ohache.

They shrugged, unable to deny her accusations. The dire wolf heist was only the beginning of Ohache’s lust for bones. They’d installed two more shelves in their room, and they were still ordering stuff online.

Vash handed them a different sheet, detailing the target of the night.

“Are you fucking kidding me? A fucking watch? They’re paying us fifty grand to nick a fucking watch? How much is this thing worth?”

“Apparently more’n fifty grand,” Vash muttered. “Though I’m not entirely sure it’ll be worth it. People keep this kinda shit pretty tight.”

“Glad I only like to collect dead animals. Nobody cares enough keeps that locked up unless it’s old.” Ohache tossed the paper back onto the folder. “I’m guessing this is my job, right?”

“Yep. I’m goin’ with ya ‘cause there’s security, but the actual work is all you.” There wasn’t really much security at all, but Vash wasn’t looking forward to a repeat of Nevada.

Ohache flopped themselves over on their side. “Then I guess I need to take a nap.”

Vash gathered up the scattered papers, tossing the envelope onto the floor. She scooted herself up on the mattress, propping herself against the pillows next to Ohache to watch TV. They were in her bed after all.

She’d seen this movie a thousand times, and as the room grew dark, Vash’s eyelids grew heavy over the sound of processed gunfire and Ohache’s rhythmic breathing against her side. With the last shred of her consciousness, she turned into them, her chin dropping to their head as she drifted away.

She couldn’t breathe. There was a pressure on her chest, someone pinning her to the ground. She opened her eyes, but the face of the person on top of her was blank, featureless, shadowless and pale. Their fist pulled back, snapping forward to strike her face, but she felt nothing. Again and again they struck her, their breathing ragged and rhythmic, high pitched, like an alarm.

An alarm.

Ohache drew back the pillow to smack her again, but her eyes snapped open and her entire body jumped. Her eyes flew to Ohache’s face, not recognizing them at first, fingers tense, ready to strike. Then she relaxed.

“Please don’t do that again,” she breathed, trying to regulate her heartbeat.

Ohache smacked her gently with the pillow one last time, leaving it on her face. “You weren’t waking up. I used drastic measures.”

Vash pushed the pillow aside and sat up, Ohache sliding down into her lap. “Maybe next time jus’ call me.”

“Fine.”

A new film was playing, something to do with time travel, and it made fitting enough background noise as they got dressed. Black sweaters, black pants, black shoes, black gloves, black rifle. She checked her pocket for her phone – she had to have something to do while Ohache was doing the actual work.

They didn’t speak much on the drive to their target, too anxious to do much more than try to remember every detail of their job. The first one of the season was always stressful.

The silence was palpable as Vash killed the car’s engine, the low rumble replaced with the sound of nighttime insects.

“Ya ready?” Vash asked.

Ohache didn’t answer. They wouldn’t be talking much until they were back in the car.

The two of them grabbed their equipment and went their separate ways. Vash keyed right and found some comfortable bushes to hang out in, pulling her rifle out of the bag and setting it next to her, loaded and ready in a pinch. She pushed the earpiece in her ear, confirmed it was operational, then settled down with her phone to read a book while she waited.

It was a usual work night.

\---

Ohache was in their element. Silent feet stepped around the house, navigating the area as though they’d lived there all their life. The owner is out to dinner, they’ll be out for about two hours, maybe more. Run some errands, catch a movie, who knows. There was a laughably easy to disable house alarm system and little else to worry about. Ohache wondered where all the promised security was.

The house was huge, spacious - obviously the home of some rich old couple. Holiday decorations were everywhere, pumpkins and turkeys adorning every available surface.

They padded up the winding, carpeted stairs to the upper story. It was little more than a hallway with a row of bedrooms, but they knew that pay dirt lie at the end. The hallway opened to the right into a large room with a projector screen against one wall, two levels of plush theatre seats across from it. Movie paraphernalia lined ornate shelving units along the remaining walls, creeping even onto the sink of the private bar.

This place just reeked of money.

Most of the shelves in the room were secured only with magnets and glass, but one, closest to the bar, was locked tight. The padlock would be trivial for Ohache, but the red light in the corner told them something more complicated than a padlock was being used to protect priceless celebrity paraphernalia.

Ohache wasn’t sure if they were relieved or annoyed that this old fucker actually respected the value of the things they owned.

They pulled out their tools, ready to set to work, peering around the cabinet, trying to find where the security system ended. It was well designed. This might actually take longer than thirty seconds.

\---

Outside, Vash was growing bored. She reached into her bag, pulling out her water bottle, popping the top off and taking a long drink. She wished it was whiskey, but that flask was in the hotel room waiting for when they got back. Victory shots, just for her.

The fence she was leaning against was no longer comfortable, and she shifted her weight, sliding onto her stomach underneath the shrub she was using as cover. The bush rustled slightly, but she wasn’t really trying that hard not to disturb it. There wasn’t anyone out here anyway. _Just me, Ash, and the owl in that tree up there that won’t stop hooting._

The night was silent. It was too cold for crickets to sing, and other than this owl, there was no other sound in the area. All the humans were safe and warm in their homes. Except, obviously, this guy. Who the fuck eats dinner at nine PM?

The owl above her suddenly fell silent, and the hair on the back of her neck lifted. That was odd. She pushed herself up onto her knees, out of the shrub, face to face with a huge, black dog.

The dog, simply inquisitive about what was in its bush before, bristled at the sight of her, jumping backwards and exploding into barking.

“’Ey now _chien_ , calm down puppy,” Vash said softly, trying to soothe the dog’s anger. The opposite effect seemed to be taking place, however, the dog’s head lowered and in between its barks were throaty, inhaling snarls. Her voice, muffled behind her mask, was only making her image in the dog’s eyes worse.

“Where’s that dog?” Ohache’s voice in her ear made her jump.

“Right fuckin’ in front of me,” Vash replied. “An’ he ain’t happy.”

Ohache swore. “It’s gonna get someone suspicious if you don’t try to shut it up.”

The dog was starting to lunge at her.

“I’m aware, thank you.” Her voice was strained, spite and sarcasm creeping in with the stress.

“Go home, puppy, shoo,” She hissed softly, waving at the dog, trying to get it to leave. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

Her voice was unknown and threatening to the dog’s ears, and it lunged, a last ditch effort to protect its property from the masked monster in the bushes. Vash kicked out at it, but she missed, and those sharp white teeth, so stark a contrast from its black fur, came for her face. She covered her face with her arms, bringing her other leg around to catch the dog in the throat from the side, staggering it on its feet just long enough for her to pull her pistol from its holster. She fumbled the safety, the dog’s eyes flashing in the moonlight. It knew what she had.

It dove for her leg, and she fired, the crack of the gunshot louder than the strike of lightning in the silent October night.

\---

Ohache’s heart stopped when he heard the gunshot outside.

“Vash! Vash are you okay? What the fuck is going on?” They were screaming louder than they wanted to.

“Fuckin’ dog tried to tear my leg off,” came her exasperated reply. “Ya want a German Shepherd skeleton?”

Ohache’s hands were shaking. They hadn’t quite gotten into this display case, and time was rapidly running out now. Neighbourhoods like this didn’t overlook gunshots and the silencing of a previously noisy dog.

The security system had eaten up so much time to disable, and now the relatively simple task of picking the locks was astronomically more difficult with Vash’s ragged breathing in their ear.

The first set of tumblers rolled into place, and they immediately began working on the next, forcing themselves to breathe normally, steady hands, feel the picks in your hands, stop letting your mind wander.

It was impossible. Their heart was trying to escape their chest, their breaths coming short and shallow, their hands unsteady. Their chest tightened more as they felt the lockpick snap off, rendering the lock useless. They had no idea how much time they had left, and they wouldn’t know until the cops were here.

Whatever. Whatever, whatever, it didn’t matter, we need to get out of here _now._

Bracing themselves against the inevitable, Ohache pulled their right glove off, wrapped it around their left hand, and punched through the glass case.

“Come on, Ash, we need to _rôday_ , like, now,” Vash said in their ear.

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” they replied, grabbing the watch from the case with the still-gloved hand and shoving it unceremoniously in a pocket. The place was a mess, not really their style, but right now getting out of here was the more important thing.

They didn’t bother being quiet as they darted down the stairs and through the lower story of the house to their entrance point – an unlocked window in an office that was obviously left that way in case someone forgot their keys. The room obviously belonged to a hunting enthusiast, and the taxidermy lining the walls would have been fascinating were Ohache not pushing a panic attack.

“Where are you?” They asked, pressing themselves against a wall, trying to avoid windows.

“West side, in some bushes, by a fountain or some shit, tryna get this dog somewhere that ain’t with me though.”

“Got it.”

They peered around a window, trying to get a bearing on what side of the yard they were looking at. By some stroke of luck, they could see the edge of the fountain through one of the windows. So she’s around there somewhere. Behind it, there was an open space about ten feet wide where the shrubs separated for a small gate set in the fence. A gate that two cops were now stepping through, guns drawn. On the street, a patrol car was parked, lights on. There hadn’t been enough time for a 911 call to go through – these guys must have been on patrol. Fuck.

Ohache froze, muscles locked into place, not even daring to breathe. The cops were looking around, listening for noise, peering into shadows. One of them tapped his buddy on the shoulder, pointing at something at their feet.

Ohache couldn’t see where Vash was, but they knew she was somewhere in those bushes, and the threat of discovery was at an all-time high. Kevlar will keep you alive from a distance, but having two .40 caliber pistols unloaded into you at point-blank range was a little out if its league. If Vash tried to get away, she’d die. If she stayed, she’d die.

That couldn’t happen.

Ohache’s eyes darted around, trying to find something, anything they could use. They had a pistol in their belt that was completely unloaded, useless, useless, why didn’t they load it? _Because you’re terrified of what it means to hold a loaded gun._

And that’s why Vash is going to die.

Ohache was running out of ideas. One of the cops was walking towards the house, the other leaning into the bushes, looking for the dog. Ohache had seconds before one of them spotted Vash.

There was an old World War II rifle hanging on the wall, and Ohache had no idea if it worked or not, but they grabbed it anyway. They pulled the slide open, wishing they could ask Vash what kind of rounds to use, but they could hear voices near the front door of the house. They were pulling open drawers, trying to find something that looked like a rifle round. They found what they were looking for in a closet, and they shoved a round into the chamber and charged it.

Ohache’s hands were shaking violently as they stepped out of the office and into the foyer of the house. They could see the silhouettes of the police through the frosted accent windows.

_No guts, no glory._

“Let me know when you’re safe,” they said softly into their headset, then lifted the rifle to their shoulder.

\---

Vash’s heart stopped. The gunshot was echoing around the property, the sound of shattered glass the aftershock of the earthquake. The policeman nearest her, inches away from finding Vash’s hiding spot, suddenly snapped around, lifting his gun, running away to see what the commotion was.

As soon as he was out of sight around the house, Vash jumped up, grabbing her rifle and bag and ran headlong to the gate, stopping to peer through the crack, making sure there wasn’t another squad car outside. She was lucky.

She squeezed through, pressing herself to the fence, keeping an eye to her exposed side for lights, movement, voices. A thin line of sparse woods separated the property from the neighbour’s, and she sprinted for it, throwing herself into the cover of brush.

She flattened herself to the ground, trying to become small, invisible.

She pressed a finger into her ear. “Ohache? Ohache, I’m out, where y’at?”

There was silence on the other end.

“What’s goin’ on Ohache?”

She tried to calm her heart rate, listening intently to the sounds coming from the yard. She could hear voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“Ohache, turn on your headset, what’s happening?”

There was silence, then suddenly there was a pop of static, just long enough for her to hear Ohache yelp in pain.

Her pulse skyrocketed, adrenaline flooding her body. She couldn’t stay here. Carefully she crawled through the brush, trying to get a better look at what was happening.

“Ash? Ash what’s going on?” Her voice was climbing in pitch, she was trying not to yell. Panic burned her spine, threatened to tear open her chest.

“-nds up, pun-“ The headset crackled to life, static filling Vash’s ear.

“Ash?”

There was a pop of static, then nothing. Ohache must have turned it off. Or worse.

Red and blue lights started flashing, car door slamming. They would be making a perimeter check soon; she had to get out of here. 

“Ash I’m goin’ to da car, I’ll wait five minutes for ya then I gotta go.” She couldn’t catch her breath. “Please be there.”

Vash threw herself into the driver’s side of her car, pulling a police radio out of the console and plugging it into the outlet. Her chest was on fire, hands shaking as she turned the dials, trying to find the right frequency.

It had been seven minutes.

She heard chatter through the speaker and froze, a male voice speaking about the break-in. Jargon, jargon, description of the property, then…

“One officer dead at the scene. Suspect was apprehended with minor struggle. Possibly male, white, adult, red hair. There was likely a second person, but no one else was found at the scene.”

The man on the radio kept talking, but Vash had stopped listening. Her head was filled with noise; she’d lost control of her breathing.

This wasn’t happening.

This couldn’t be happening. It can’t, it can’t, it can’t, it can’t, it can’t, they were too good for this, too talented, too good, too good, too good.

Somewhere from beneath her panic, a rational voice spoke up. _Get out._

The turned the car on. The roar of the engine pulled her back into the present, forcing her to put attention to something other than her mind. She carefully eased out onto the road, merging into traffic, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

She gave up holding it together once she reached the hotel room, stumbling through the door and half-falling, half-sitting on the edge of Ohache’s bed. The weight of their suitcase bouncing behind her drove the nail home.

She bowed over her knees, face in her hands, back heaving, not quite able to catch her breath. She couldn’t think, couldn’t process what had just happened. All she felt was white-hot panic. She curled up on the bed, still in her work clothes, not bothering even to take off her gloves, her boots.

Her face hurt, her eyes heavy. Sleep came as a blessing, drifting into the void where nothing could hurt her, curled up on Ohache’s bed.

The TV remained on. Two men sat in front of high windows, drinking coffee, speaking low.

_“Allow nothing to be in your life you cannot walk out on in 30 seconds flat.”_


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_October_

“Toby…you need to see this.”

Yorrick looked up from the stove. “I’m making breakfast here, dude, I don’t want it to burn. Is it important?”

“Yes, it is.”

Something in Benvolio’s voice made the back of his neck prickle, and he turned off the burner and set aside the pan he’d been sweating over to pad into the living room. “What’s up?”

Benvolio was standing behind the couch, gripping the back to steady himself, obviously having stopped in his tracks on his way through the room on still unsteady legs. His black eyes were wide, staring straight at the TV, and he looked paler than usual, the line of his jaw tight.

“What’s wrong, Ben?” His employer was never concerned about anything unless it was his own business.

Benvolio’s voice was weak. “The news.”

“Why? What’s up?”

On the screen, the newscaster was bordered by a banner in capitalized letters: “SUSPECT IN NATIONWIDE CRIMINAL STREAK CAUGHT.” She was suspended mid-sentence, the broadcast paused.

Yorrick’s stomach turned. “Ben, what is this?”

Wordlessly, Benvolio pressed play.

“ _Last night, police responded to a noise complaint call about a dog barking in an East Nashville neighbourhood and intercepted a robbery in progress, apprehending one of possibly two or more thieves. The thief, twenty year old Amelia Wash was arrested after killing a responding officer and attacking another before being subdued. Signs of a second person were found outside at the scene, but was not found._

 _“Walsh is suspected to be involved in at least 5 other robberies this year. The incidents are still under investigation._ ”

The broadcast changed, but Yorrick kept staring, the mugshot of a scared little kid burned into his mind. That couldn’t be them. Ohache was careful, they were smart, and they definitely wouldn’t kill anyone. Not without a good reason.

Benvolio turned to Yorrick, something like pity in his eyes.

Yorrick’s mind was going too fast. No, no, no, no, Ben was never sorry for anything. That’s not how he operates, he pities nobody, not even himself.

“No, that’s not Ash…” Yorrick’s voice was weak.

Benvolio put a hand on his arm, a terrifying display of affection that was so incredibly out of character that Yorrick was convinced he was dreaming. “Toby…”

“That’s…they…they wouldn’t…” _Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!_

“Toby, there’s nobody else it could be. There’s only one kid in the country with that hair and that criminal record-“

Yorrick slapped his hand away. “Shut up! Stop talking! You’re not helping!” He pulled on his hair, struggling to keep his composure. Benvolio was sadistic and cold but of all the people in the world he wouldn’t lie to, it was Yorrick. He felt more than heard the growl rolling up from his chest to his throat.

“Do you need me to get you some-“ Benvolio started, pointing to the bathroom, but he shut his mouth when Yorrick turned to him, baring his teeth like a wild animal.

“Just go away, Ben. Let me have a minute alone, okay?” His vision was blurred with tears, his emotions about to snap. He didn’t want Benvolio around for that.

Benvolio moved as if to touch him, but Yorrick turned his back on him.

“I told you to _get out_.”

Benvolio ducked out of the room.

Yorrick slammed his foot into something solid, barely feeling the pain, resisting the urge to slam his fist through the wall. This wasn’t happening.

Something from the newscast played through his mind. There was a second person, but they weren’t found. So Vacherie was there, and she left. She fucking left. She left Ash alone by themself and he was going to kill her if she didn’t have a good reason.

He pulled out his phone, dialing Vash’s number. No answer. Again. No answer.

He threw his phone against the wall, the growl in his throat turning into a guttural roar that shook the walls. He was going to kill her with his bare fucking hands.

Benvolio stepped back through the door as Yorrick kicked the coffee table again, something in his foot crunching.

“Hey, buddy, breaking your foot isn’t going to help,” Benvolio said, handing out a glass of something amber and strong smelling.

“And drinking will?”

Benvolio shrugged. “Not really, but it’ll lessen the pain of that toe you just fractured. They used to put scotch in med kits for a reason.”

Yorrick stared at the glass, not moving to take it. “You know as well as I do that it’s only there so people can drown in their own misery.”

Benvolio took a sip from his glass. “It’s just scotch. It’ll calm you down enough to make your anger productive, and give you something to do besides break your bones and my furniture.”

Yorrick had to physically hold himself back from breaking Benvolio’s nose. Of course he was more concerned with his aesthetic than the fact that Ash had gotten arrested. What a piece of shit. _Why on earth do I care about him sometimes?_

Benvolio finished off the scotch in his glass. “Look, I’m leaving the alcohol here. I’m not telling you how to deal with your shit, but I will ask you to stop kicking things. If you break something more than your toe you’ll have to wait even longer to bust ‘em out.”

Yorrick’s breath caught in his throat. He looked up to ask Benvolio what he meant, but his employer had already left the room.

Yorrick leaned on the credenza, the pain slowly crawling up his leg. As much as he wanted to break something, he knew Benvolio was right.

That fucker.

\---

“You have three new messages.” The robotic voice was followed by a short tone.

First voice message. “ _Vacherie I swear to every god in this sky, if you don’t pick up the phone I will find you and I will kill you. I need answers. If you so much as imply that you left Ash alone to cover your ass, I will subject you to Ben’s idea of a good time. Pick up your god damn phone! It’s not fucking hard! Fuck!_ ”

Second voice message. “ _Pick up the phone, Vash. Pick up your fucking phone!_ ”

Third voice message. “ _Alexis please. Pick up your phone. I just need to talk to you_.”

Vash pressed the number seven on the number pad.

“Messages erased. One saved voiced message. First voice message.”

She hung up the call before the saved message could play.

She let the phone fall through her fingers, the thud it made as it fell into the cup holder of her car louder than it should have been.

The interstate was beginning to fill, even though the sun hadn’t even begun to rise. She was exhausted, running on coffee she didn’t even like and music that had lost its appeal. How long had she been on the road? She didn’t know.

Somehow she’d managed to make it back to her house before Ohache’s parents ratted her address to the cops, and she loaded everything she possibly could into her car. It was a pitiful amount, and she cursed herself for not investing in a car with better storage space. _They told me, they told me every time we went out that there was no way they could fit it all in…_

She had cried packing up Ohache’s things from the hotel in Nashville, clinging to that familiar smell of her only friend. By the time she was done packing up the necessary items from their bedroom, she didn’t have anything left in her to cry.

She felt hollow as she looked back at her house, this creaky pile of wood that she’d only just begun to feel at home in. Light from the fireplace illuminated the room, the catnip mice still lying in the middle of the floor, Ohache’s jacket draped over the arm of the couch, right where they’d left it before heading to Tennessee. It felt like years ago.

She locked the door behind her, ignoring the smell of smoke.

Her two cats, loaded into carriers, were strapped into the seat next to her, but the emptiness still lingered in the silence between songs.

The sky was turning orange as she pulled into the parking lot of a motel, paying for a night that she knew she wasn’t going to fully use. She needed to sleep eventually.

There were two beds in the room. She took the one closest to the wall.

She didn’t bother unpacking. She just reached into her suitcase and pulled out her bourbon, tipping the bottle back and laying down.

When she felt like she might be numb enough, she picked up her phone, dialing a number and laying it on her chest. It was time to listen to that message.

“You have one saved message. To listen to your messages, press one.”

There was a soft tone as she pressed the number on the touch screen, heart in her throat. She tipped the bottle back again.

“Lex? Lex, it’s Ash. Remember, from work? We haven’t talked in a while but…Listen, Lex, I got involved in…some bad stuff. I owe you an apology.”

Vash unconsciously dug her nails into her arm, bringing her bottle to her mouth with a shaking hand. She wasn’t as ready as she thought to hear their voice.

“I might’ve said some…stuff back when we were together. But I…I’ve…I just wanted to tell you…” Their voice audibly caught in their throat. “I just wanted to tell you that when we were together, it was great. You were great. Please, don’t feel bad about the whole thing, Lex. I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.”

Vash felt blood draw as the sound of a phone being hung on its receiver echoed from her cell’s speakers.

“End of saved messages.”

\---

Yorrick was dragged out into consciousness by a catchy pop song pouring from tinny phone speakers. When did he fall asleep? He wasn’t sure. His mouth tasted like scotch and frustration, but he sat up anyway, fumbling for his phone on the coffee table. He slapped at it, answering the call but sending it skittering across the glass top and onto the floor. He didn’t look at who was calling as he put it to his ear.

“What the fuck-“ A female voice with an unmistakable accent.

“Vacherie! Vash, what the fuck happened?”

“What happen to what?” Her words were slow and stuttering. Was she drunk? Of course she was. 

“What happened with Ash?”

There was a pause, and Yorrick heard the sound of her dropping a glass too heavily on a counter. “Th’ got ‘rrested.”

“No shit. How. And if you let it happen I swear to god-“ Yorrick could feel his blood pressure rising.

“I didn’ do it.” Her tone was flat.

Yorrick knew he wasn’t getting much more out of her. “Where are you?” He desperately hoped she was sober enough to know.

“Dunno, New Mexico? No, wait…Texas. It’s cold here ‘n Texas. ‘S weird.”

“Where in Texas, Alexis?” Yorrick didn’t have time to deal with her shit. Not when Ash’s life was still in the balance.

“San Francisco. I mean San Antonio. San Angelo? One o’ them ‘San Somethin’’ cities. I dunno. Use ya stalker-y track-y program an’ fin’ me, ya piece a shit.”

“I don’t have one,” he lied. “I’m not a stalker. Why on earth would I want to know where your alcoholic ass is at any given time?”

She blew a raspberry into the phone. “As _if_. Yer Ben’s pet dog, yer sneaky. Ya have a copy somewhere.”

“No, I don’t, because Ash asked me not to track you, and _I_ don’t betray people.” His words were loaded, and he immediately regretted it. If she hung up on him now, he was screwed.

There was a long pause. “I don’ even know where _I_ am, Yorrick.”

He felt a pang in his chest. Her voice sounded so broken, a glimpse of her emotion through the alcohol. He almost felt sorry for her. “Do you want me to find you?”

The honestly in her voice scared him.

“I don’t know.”

\---

Benvolio could sense Yorrick’s irritation as soon as the balcony door slid open, following him like a cloud around his shoulders. “No luck?” he asked, taking a drag of his cigarette.

Yorrick flopped into one of the chairs next to Benvolio, feeling exhausted both mentally and physically. “She pretty much told me to fuck off and let her run away from her problems like an adult.”

“Sounds about right.” Ben flicked the ashes off the railing absently. “She’s not going to help you any time soon.”

“She was so drunk on the phone she didn’t even know where she was.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Not really.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by Benvolio sitting down next to Yorrick, tossing the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray. “Do you want me to find her?” There was almost a hint of caring in his voice.

Yorrick’s eyes darkened. “If this is how she responds to shit she doesn’t deserve my help.”

Benvolio looked out over the city beyond the balcony of his penthouse. “So what do you want to do?”

“I want to get Ash out.”

Benvolio nodded as he lit another cigarette, ignoring the look of disapproval Yorrick gave him. “Alright. How do you wanna do it?”

“Quickly.”

“Wrong.”

Yorrick’s right hand balled into a fist, but when he turned to look at Benvolio, he recognized the look in his employer’s eyes.

Benvolio stared straight ahead, half-heartedly exhaling smoke, eyes not seeing what was in front of him, lost in his thoughts. Yorrick had seen this look many times before. The look of a mastermind formulating a plan.

“Then what do you suggest I do?”

“You aren’t gonna like it.”

Yorrick grit his teeth together. If Benvolio was saying he wasn’t going to like it, he probably _really_ was not going to like it. “Tell me.”

“I think you should wait.”


	15. Chapter Fifteen

_November_

“You got a visitor, kid.”

Ohache looked up, struggling to focus on the guard’s face. The sound of the key turning in the lock of their cell didn’t feel real, but the snap and pressure of handcuffs certainly was.

“Who is it?” They finally managed to ask as the guard escorted them down the brightly-lit hallway past rows and rows of iron bars.

“Not anyone you want to see,” was all the guard replied.

Ohache felt their soul leave their body as they walked into the visitor’s room and saw the woman on the other side of the glass. She looked like she’d aged twenty years overnight, her blue eyes tired and empty.

Ohache couldn’t look at her.

The silence was thick, suffocating. The TV behind Ohache’s mother was playing a newscast of their arrest again, and they were thankful they couldn’t hear it. The guard behind them popped his shoulder loudly.

“Why, Ash? Why did you do it?” Their mother’s voice drove the stake through their heart further, distorted by the red phone on Ohache’s shoulder. “You had so much potential. You were worth so much more than that.”

Ohache couldn’t reply.

They heard more than saw the tears welling in her eyes. “Was anything you told me not a lie?”

They struggled to think of something. Everything about their life was a collection of half-truths, white lies, a glossing over of details. Even when the falsehoods were separated from the accuracies, there was so pitifully little to even be worth mentioning.

They didn’t bother answering.

“Were you even at the museum, Ash? Is all this why you never hardly ever came to visit?”

“Mom, I…”

“Did you even think about how we would feel? Did you think about how hard it’s going to be telling your brother? How could you be this selfish?” Her fragile hands balled into fists, trembling ever so slightly. “You used to be such a good kid.”

“Mom, Mom I’m sorry…”

But she’d hung up the phone.

\---

“Home sweet home, darlin’,” the guard said, her rough voice full of sarcasm as she shoved Ohache into the cell. “You’ll be here for a while.”

They stood in the same position, trying to wrap their head around the tiny room they had to themselves. The door clanged behind them, locking remotely. No keyholes to pick here, no windows to climb through, no shadows to hide in. Just iron bars and concrete floors.

Their clothes felt rough, the feel of the fabric foreign against their skin. They felt exposed, crossing their arms around their chest, pressing their fingers into their ribs. They hadn’t been allowed to have their binder, forced instead to pull on the ill-fitting cotton bra they were given. Their reflection in the metal check-in table was foreign, incorrect. _That’s not me._

They had no belongings to their name except the garish orange jumpsuit, which they constantly told themselves was just an orange jumpsuit, not a prison uniform, this wasn’t real and this wasn’t happening.

They looked down at the emptiness before them, catching a glimpse of the curve of a chest that wasn’t theirs. _Don’t look down, Ash, look up._

Up wasn’t much better. Concrete ceiling, a vent too small to fit through, a fluorescent light set into the ceiling and covered with heavy iron bars. They paced the walls, scouring every inch of the cell. No fractures, no defects. No way out.

Ohache sat on the cot, pulling their legs to their chest, shivering against the cold that seemed to permeate every inch of the building. 

Ohache jumped sharply as someone banged hard on their cell door.

“Wake up, sunshine, lunch time.”

They sat up slowly, accepting the tray slid through the slot in the barred door and set it on the floor. They weren’t hungry. There was probably poison or something in that food anyway.

They stared at the tray until the guard came back to collect it. She gave Ohache a look as she took it from them. They hoped to see compassion in her eyes, but instead found themself falling down dark brown pits that swallowed them up, suffocating them.

They pressed their eyes shut, forcing the vision away. _You have to be brave, Ash, Lex can never stand you if you sat and rotted here with your hands behind your back._

“Er, ma’am?” As soon as the words left their mouth they felt their resolve slipping. Their voice was pitiful and high pitched. _You were never the brave one, it was always her, you were the one hiding in the shadows with a gun that wasn’t loaded, you worthless coward._

“What is it?” The guard asked, her face unchanging, her voice rough.

“When…do I get to use the phone again?”

She laughed at them. “When you’ve been a good girl long enough that I feel like it.”

“Shouldn’t I get one free one?” They were desperate.

“You already used that one, sister. I hope it was to someone important.”

_Me too,_ Ohache thought as they slid to the cold concrete floor. The emptiness they felt was deeper than the night they pressed the phone at the police station to their ear, only to hear Vash’s voice in her voice mail box, telling them she wasn’t there. _I needed you, Lex._

“Better get used to it,” came an unfamiliar voice from Ohache’s right. Through the bars, they could see a dark-skinned hand waving at them from the next cell. “Stephanie’s a bitch. Be nice though and you might be allowed to get mail.”

Ohache backpedaled away from the hand, pressing themselves against the wall.

The voice kept talking. “Heard you’re in for big stuff. Bless your heart. You ain’t never gettin’ outta here.”

Ohache didn’t reply. _Don’t pity me. I killed a police officer for a stupid fucking watch. I don’t deserve your empathy. I deserve every day in this place._

They lay back down on the cot, trying in vain to find a position that would provide them with some warmth. What they wouldn’t give for a blanket. More than likely blankets were too high of a suicide risk in maximum security. It was probably a good thing, then, that all they had was this jumpsuit. They felt sick, the emptiness crawling from their stomach to their head, a pain in their temple heralding the beginning of the inevitable. Right where they should have put that bullet.

Benvolio pushed the door open to his office, flicking the light on absently. It was spotless. _Of course it was,_ he thought. He hadn’t been to work in months thanks to getting his head scrambled up.

Today, at least, he had a good reason to be here. Not one he really enjoyed, but if it would keep Yorrick from trashing the penthouse, he’d get it done.

Yorrick followed him into the room, flopping into one of the overstuffed antique chairs across from Benvolio’s desk. He was still in a mood, taking his little raincloud around wherever he went, getting everything all wet and gloomy. He would never admit it, but his bodyguard’s funk was starting to weigh on his mind. Yorrick was almost literally hired to be the stability in Benvolio’s life, and seeing Yorrick upset was rocking the shaky, poorly built boat of his mental state.

Benvolio’s work phone rang on his desk, and he picked it up absently, kicking his computer out of hibernate. “Benvolio, what do you want.”

His eyes flicked to Yorrick, as he listened to the person on the other line. Yorrick was slouched in his chair, looking at his phone. _Earn that raise, Toby._

“Thanks, Ian.” He relished the surprised sound Ian made in his ear at the sound of his boss thanking him for something before hanging up. “Well we know where Ash is.”

Yorrick looked up.

“They’re in Kentucky, apparently on life. Which is good for you, I guess.”

Yorrick was already on his feet, pulling up the GPS on his phone. “Get me an armoury ticket.”

“And what’re you gonna do with it? Grab half a battalion’s worth of rifles and storm a maximum security prison by yourself? Excellent plan. I’ll make up a good story to tell your baby sister about why you aren’t coming home for Thanksgiving.”

Yorrick looked down at him, sitting at his desk, arms crossed, pulling a cigarette out of a gold case on his desk, lighting it casually with his diamond-studded lighter. That smug motherfucker.

“Give me some guys and I’ll get it done tomorrow.”

“With no planning? Have you ever broken into a prison before?” Benvolio took a drag, blowing the smoke away from Yorrick as a small courtesy.

Yorrick glared at him. “Have you?”

“No, actually, but I imagine it takes a bit more than balls of steel and some guns.”

Yorrick paced. “God dammit Ben, you want me to just sit here while Ash is dying out there?”

“Sit down Toby, they aren’t dying.”

“You don’t know Ash like I do. They’re…” He paused, holding out his hands, feeling the word in the back of his mind in a language he knew his employer didn’t know, trying to find the way to say it.

“Cowardly?” Ben suggested.

Benvolio had the thought that maybe he’d gone too far when Yorrick’s shoe met the leg of his desk, knocking Benvolio’s name plate on its face. _So angry, so violent._ Benvolio decided he’d call him in a few minutes, see where he’d run off to. Probably downstairs to the range. He liked to blow off steam with a pile of buckshot and a 12-gauge.

Benvolio finished off his cigarette and sighed, trying to resist rubbing the scar that ran through his eyebrow. The headaches made it hard to concentrate on work lately, and the pain medication from the hospital didn’t even have a chance of working. The thirty-second call to his pilot alone made his vision swim. He rummaged in a desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of pills that didn't come from a pharmacy and swallowing one of them dry. _If Yorrick finds out you’re taking this shit again he'll skin you alive._ Benvolio blinked, the intrusive thought pulsing through his headache. He grimaced. _Not if he’s too busy kissing your feet for saving his poor little friend,_ he spat back at himself mentally. _And marvelous reconnaissance requires one to be unhindered by skull-splitting headaches._

By the time Benvolio stepped onto the plane, his headache was gone, and he’d felt better than he had in months.

\---

“Get up 45; you’ve got places to be.”

Ohache sat up to see Stephanie standing at their cell door, fiddling with the door controls. They were confused, unsure of the time of day, or honestly what day it even was. Everything was starting to blur together. They couldn’t think of anywhere they needed to go – it was the middle of the day and the hour of semi-freedom wasn’t until evening. There was no other reason for this door to open, Ohache had learned, unless…

Stephanie snapped the cuffs over Ohache’s thin wrists and led them roughly out of the cell. Their legs felt weak, unused, marched down the cold gray hallways of the prison, past multiple labeled doors that they would never get to walk through. Gym rooms and common areas were not for cop-killers.

Ohache’s heart leapt in their chest when Stephanie led them left from the hallway, through the door marked “Visitation.” They weren’t sure if they would ever see the sky again, but they would take Vash or Yorrick as a close second.

Their blood ran cold in their veins when they saw instead a dark coat and sunglasses, leaning against one of the wooden dividers of the booth.

“Ten minutes,” Stephanie said as she pushed Ohache through the door. Benvolio nodded at her, and she left the room. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

They stood there, staring at him through the Plexiglas, too surprised to respond to the panic in their head. What was he doing here?

“Relax, Red. If you get too upset, someone I haven’t paid off will come in and screw this up.” His voice was muffled through the divider.

Ohache obeyed, sitting gingerly into the chair across from Benvolio, picking up the phone awkwardly in cuffed hands.

“How’s it goin’? Wanted to stop in and see how dead you were before Toby broke something.”

“Where is he?”

“Indianapolis.”

Ohache’s crestfallen face would have crushed a lesser man.

“Oh come on, don’t look so disappointed. I came here first to scout the place out. Make sure his delicate little head could handle it. If he comes visit and you’re all roughed up he’s gonna blow shit up. I, on the other hand, don’t have the sentimentality to want to rescue you myself.”

His voice, even filtered through the shitty earpiece, grated on Ohache’s ears. They couldn’t see his eyes behind the signature mirrored sunglasses, but they were positive they showed no emotion or soul.

“Why even come at all, then?” They asked, irritated.

He reached into his coat for a cigarette, but seemed to think better of it. “Listen, I lost one of my best in February. I’m not about to lose Yorrick too because I’m too bitter to separate my working life from my personal one.”

Ohache stared at him. _His best?_

Benvolio leaned on his elbow. “I’m not saying I’ll get you out, but if I do, you’d owe me one hell of a favour, wouldn’t you?”

Ohache wasn’t sure what to say.

“Anyway, you aren’t dying or anything, are you? Nobody’s trying to touch you inappropriately or whatever happens in prison? I have to make a report when I get home.”

“No…no it’s fine. I’m fine.” They knew he could see the dark circles under their eyes and their unkempt hair, but they lied anyway.

“Right. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear it.” He inhaled deeply, shifting to the side, preparing to stand up and leave.

“Hey, Ben, wait.”

Benvolio put the phone back to his ear slowly.

“Have you…heard anything from Lex?”

Benvolio laughed, and Ohache’s heart sank.

“Last I heard she was in Texas and could barely talk. She burned her house down with everything in it and took off.” He shrugged. “Personally I think hell will freeze over before you see her again.”

\---

Benvolio felt the exact instant the methadone wore off. It crashed into him like a Mack truck, and the throbbing didn’t stop. He was looking forward to a nice, relaxing shower and maybe he’d have dinner with Yorrick, drink some water or something, take a little bit of care of himself for once. Anything to make the throbbing stop.

The knife twisted when he got four messages and a missed call simultaneously, his phone once again regaining signal on the ground. When he found Yorrick waiting for him in the parking lot, Benvolio was very aware of the gun in his jacket. Was it worth this lecture?

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Kentucky?” Yorrick wasn’t looking at him, staring ahead at the highway.

Benvolio winced at the sound of his bodyguard’s voice stabbing into his temple. “You weren’t around and I wanted to check the place out before you go storming in there.”

Yorrick’s voice settled slightly. “And?”

“And the kid looks like shit but they’re alive. The place is bolted down tight, though. I paid off a guard to chat with them alone but it’s gonna be hard to keep it that way. Everyone’s pretty straight in there.”

“Surely you’ve got contacts.”

Ben pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course I fucking do. That doesn’t mean I can just call ‘em up like ‘Hey Jerry, go plant some C4 in the Kentucky Correctional Institute for me, thanks buddy see you later.’ Shit takes time and planning.”

Yorrick wasn’t happy, but he would have to deal with it.

“I still don’t want you going off without me. Especially to a prison, Jesus Christ, Ben. What part of ‘bodyguard’ do you keep forgetting?”

“The part _you_ keep forgetting every time you run off to waste my money on horses.”

“There’s a much lower risk of being recognized at a racetrack. Fuck, Ben, you could have gotten taken in yourself. You’ve got to start thinking about this shit.” 

Benvolio knew he was concerned, he could hear the worry in Yorrick’s voice, but his head hurt too much to care. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

There was a moment of silence, Yorrick lost in his thoughts. Eventually, softly, as to not irritate Benvolio’s headache, Yorrick asked, “What did they say?”

“A lot of lies. They were sad you weren’t there. Asked about Alexis.”

“And you told them…?”

“The truth.”

\---

Vash pushed the hotel door open with her shoulder, arms laden with grocery bags, which she dumped unceremoniously on the floor as she entered. The room was dark, and Matinee’s silhouette in the window painted a very atmospheric picture. Ash would have loved it.

“Hey girls, I’m home,” she said weakly, and they ignored her.

She sighed and kicked off her snowy boots, pulling her coat off and tossing it on the floor alongside her groceries. If you could call them that. The bags contained little more than a few bags of cat food and cheap liquor.

When she opened one of the cans, the cats sprang to life, suddenly immensely enjoying Vash’s presence, rubbing on her legs and brumming as she dished out their portions. As soon as they were done eating, they dispersed, wanting nothing to do with her.

“I envisioned a very different life with y’all on the road, y’know that right?” She asked, unscrewing the almost-empty bottle of vodka sitting on the night stand. “Y’all two make shitty roommates.”

She leaned back on her elbows, relishing in the fire that burned her throat. Outside, snow was beginning to pile on the rooftops, and she was starting to realize she had no idea how to deal with snow. _You didn’t think much about this, did you? You just assumed it would be easy._

_Shut up,_ she told herself. _I wasn’t planning on having to leave._

_You should always be planning to leave._

She drank until she felt numb again, not realizing that the room was cold. The snow was falling harder now, obscuring the view from the window. The radio had said there was supposed to be two inches tonight. Vash wasn’t sure if that was a lot or not. Ohache would know. They’d probably be bitching at her to buy salt or an ice pick or whatever it is you do when you live somewhere snow falls like this.

She should have gone south, through Mexico. She had the chance – San Angelo wasn’t too far from the border. _It wasn’t too late,_ she thought. _Just find somewhere for the cats to go and drive_. Nothing was holding her here anymore. _The only tie you had to anything is gone now and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re only one person. The only weapon you have is your handgun, that’s it. It’s just you now. As it should have always been._

A chime rang through the silence, tearing her eyes away from the white window. Her phone, somehow not dead, alerted her to a message.

_They’re in Kentucky. If you were interested._

Her resolve failed, just for a second. A brief, overwhelming desire to drop everything and fly to the mountains, to offer herself up in their stead.

But she couldn’t do anything. No equipment, no contacts, no help. She wasn’t smart enough to plan a breakout, not quiet enough to sneak in. _Oh God, how did I get myself in this situation in the first place? I thought I knew better_.

She finished the vodka. In the morning, she told herself, we’ll pack up and head south and try to forget this ever happened.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

_December_

_Hide, hide, hide, hide_. Ohache pressed their shoulder into the corner, gasping for air, tears streaming down their face, thankful nobody was there to hear them panic.

They’d lost track of how many days it’d been. All they knew is their arms were weak and their hair was touching their collar, and all they felt was overpowering fear. There was nothing. No distractions, nothing to look at, nothing to do, not even the common area to listen to other conversations while pressed against the cold concrete wall during free time. Ohache thought their small cell with its iron bars and the blanket they’d finally talked Stephanie into giving them was hell, but that was nothing compared to ad seg. The bars were replaced with a solid steel door, their sparsely furnished cell with an empty concrete box.

The pills weren’t working, they weren’t the right ones. “This is what you get,” Stephanie had said, “Take it or leave it,” and they’d taken it, because it was better than nothing. But it didn’t work. It wasn’t working, and the other inmates were finally tired of the sniffling.

In here there was silence, nothing to hear but the sound of their own voice reverberating off the walls, condemning them, damning them. They clawed the walls with bitten-off nails, crying their confessions into the stone, begging them for death.

Yorrick had visited, and it was a miracle it was allowed, because nobody goes into administrative segregation and gets to walk out to see their friends. Maybe they’d made an impression. Maybe Ben had paid the guards off. _Congratulations, Amelia, you piece of shit_. 

Yorrick had looked exhausted; the lines under his eyes making him look so much older than he was. His eyes had lit up when he saw Ohache, and they barely held it together long enough to talk.

He’d ask if Vash had visited. Days later and Ohache couldn’t push the memory of his face when they’d told him she hadn’t out of their head. Dark clouds rolled behind his soft brown eyes, an anger that Ohache realized they shared. At first they’d imagined her, a silhouette against a fiery explosion, breaking down the walls to whisk them away. But it had been months, and she never came.

Now, in the silence, they only saw her at her worst – on the floor in yet another drunken stupor, oblivious to their pain, Benvolio’s whistling laugh echoing through their ears. As the days dragged on, the worst was all they saw in anyone. Benvolio igniting in rage, burning to ashes, Yorrick beaten and bloody, the only person on this earth willing to take a hit for them, trying his hardest to save them. In the silence they saw themselves, small and spiteful and afraid.

“Amelia.”

Their thoughts were broken by Stephanie’s voice saying the name they tried to kill. There was a loud clanging as something dropping through the slot in the door, hitting the floor with a thud that sounded like gunfire in Ohache’s ears. It took a moment to realize that they hadn’t heard Stephanie in weeks. What was she doing here? It was usually someone else.

They struggled to focus on the item on the floor, the screaming in their mind too loud to think straight. What was that, what was that, is it bad? Will it kill me? Do I want it to kill me? It was small, rectangular…a box? They imagined huge black flies springing out of it when they opened the lid, explosives taking off their hands, secret compartments full of razors with which to silence themselves permanently. They finally saw it was a book, but it did little to ease their mind. Books could hide just as horrifying things between their pages.

But books were also something to do. Something to look at, something to touch, something other than their own thoughts and their own tiny voice to think about. They sat there for what felt like hours, locked in an internal debate. Pick it up, pick it up, pick it up, leave it alone, leave it alone, leave it alone.

Finally, they reached across the floor and picked it up, curiosity and desperation for a distraction winning out. _Curiosity kills the cat, Ash, and you are the cat_. They turned it over gingerly, wondering what they’d been blessed, or maybe cursed with.

 _AP Calculus for Seniors_ , the cover read.

A math book? Why would someone send them a math book? They opened it, flinching away from the smell of the pages, that dusty, aged scent they once relished. There was nothing in it, no pencil, no paper to write on, but there was a corner of college-ruled paper with an unfamiliar handwriting.

_Merry Christmas._

A thousand scenarios ran through Ohache’s head: the book smelled old because it had anthrax in it. Stephanie was Yorrick in disguise. Stephanie was a double agent, true to Ben, and she was going to help him bust them out. She was a double agent, loyal to the force, and when Benvolio and Yorrick busted them out she was going to shoot them all.

They shook their head, pushing the thoughts out of their mind. It was bullshit, all of it. Probably. The book was likely no more than a holiday gift. But from whom? Why? I don’t deserve this, why did I get a gift? There is no Christmas in prison. Why, why, why…

But at least for that one night, the silence wasn’t so loud, and they ground what was left of their nails on the concrete scratching out the problems in the book.

When dinner came they absently picked at it, too engrossed to realize that they had finished the plate.

\---

It was fucking freezing. The sky was gray and the weather channel threatened snow for almost the entire country. The north cried for mercy, the south rejoiced, but it wasn’t supposed to be this cold, even in December.

Vash couldn’t get the door of her hotel room open fast enough, her fingertips numb in her thin leather gloves. The room was cold, even with the ancient air conditioning unit growling and pumping out hot air that smelled like burning dust. It wasn’t doing a good job of fending off the unseasonably cold weather.

The TV was playing a commercial for some sale, come get your loved ones a bunch of shit to make them happy! They’ll love you for sure. Give us your money.

She turned the channel, presented again with another reminder that hey, it’s Christmas! It’s Christmas and you’re alone. And so are they.

_Fuck this_. She took a swig from whatever was open and peeled her layers off, running a shower to try to warm up. The water was hot, and her skin steamed, and she enjoyed the fleeting moment of feeling alive.

She’d barely stepped out when there was a knock at the door. Still in her towel, Vash lunged for her gun, still in its holster, lying on the dresser. Silently she crossed the room, pressing herself against the door, peering through the peep hole.

She expected to see a team of SWAT, guns pointed at the door, ready to take her in, finally. Instead, she saw the warped face of Yorrick through the bulbed portal, staring down at his phone, waiting for her to answer.

“Ya lied,” She said, glaring at him through the small crack the chain on the door allowed.

“Blame Ben.” He just stood there, arms crossed, towering over her, intimidating in a way that only bodyguards can be.

“What d’ya want?” Her voice was tired.

“I went see Ash,” he replied, his voice low.

She said nothing, but she dropped her eyes from his face anyway. Of course.

“And they said they hadn’t seen you.”

“Yorrick, please.”

“I’m not really a fan of seeing my friend cry because their girlfriend is too busy running away from her problems.”

“Lemme handle it how I want to.”

“How is that? Drinking until you forget about it? That working out for you?”

She tried to shut the door in his face, but he shoved his foot in the gap. “I’m surprised. I expected the great Vacherie to be a little more go-getting than this. You did point a lot of guns in mine and Ben’s faces back in the day. What happened to that determination to save Ash?” The filter on his mouth was gone. He finally had the opportunity to release some of the anger he’d been bottling inside, and he didn’t care enough to keep it nice.

“Or are you guilty about something?”

She was shaking, her free hand balled into a fist that she wanted more than anything to put right into his chest, even if it meant getting a broken arm in return. 

She released the fist, her entire body slumping forward against the doorframe. “If yer gonna shoot me, just get it over with,” she said weakly.

Yorrick caught his breath, the familiar cadence of her words striking a chord inside him. He’d heard those words too many times in the middle of the night. Suddenly he noticed the dullness of her eyes, the way her collarbones stuck out, the ashiness of her skin.

She was too empty to cry. “They did it so I wouldn’ get caught. An’ I coulda helped, but I…ran away. They told me to. But I shoulda stayed…I shoulda helped…”

“You aren’t helping them by running away now, either, you know.” His voice was a growl.

“I can’t help ‘em now, anyway.”

“You can help them a lot more than you think, Lex. Being there is step one.”

\---

Children played outside in the courtyard of the hotel, throwing snowballs at one another with glee. Most of the kids here had probably never seen snow, and even the adults would make it outside, bundled up in far too much clothing, smiling up at the drab gray sky still shedding flakes. What a holiday miracle, the first snow in decades, and two days before Christmas.

Inside the hotel, Vash sat on the edge of the bed, staring out of the window, not really looking at anything. She felt sick to her stomach, and this time it wasn’t just because of the alcohol. Yorrick seemed convinced she needed to eat, but she wasn’t sure. He’d gone on a lunch run regardless.

Her head wasn’t steady, her limbs moved slowly and awkwardly, but she couldn’t drink enough to drown out the voices in her mind anymore. She figured that Yorrick had meant to inspire her with his words, and she appreciated the effort, but more than ever the desire to disappear overpowered her mind.

It was too late to help anyone now. It was better to let Ohache be angry than to try to apologize for never coming back. Maybe they’d hate her. It was better than missing her.

She’d never really been a fan of the holidays. All the emphasis on family and togetherness left a sour taste in her mouth since she’d been forbidden from going to family get-togethers so as not to offend anyone with her appearance and her choice of company. She didn’t have a use for a tree, or decorations. Nobody was coming to visit her, nobody was giving her gifts.

Against her better judgement, she had bought Ohache a gift. There was no tree to put it under, not even any lights to set the mood. But she figured it was the thing to do.

She tried her best to take it with her, but it wouldn’t fit in the car, forced to watch it burn with the rest of everything else she’d worked for. Maybe it was better that way. One less thing to remind her.

In the fading light she noticed her reflection in the window, backlit by the bedside lamp. _Ain’t you a pretty picture_ , she thought. She looked like she’d been dead for years, her face thinned, her hair uncombed and uncontained. She didn’t have the energy to put any effort into herself anymore. It was hard enough remembering to eat when she purposefully tried to keep herself from thinking. Long hair was not meant for the guilty.

She hadn’t cut her hair since she was a teenager – the day she quit her retail job and destroyed her life. It was mostly laziness that kept it long, months on the road keeping her busy. Trimming it herself every few months saved her a trip into town. If nothing else, it was different. It was something nobody else could change. It was her.

Her reflection looked back at her. She didn’t feel like Alexis anymore. She left that person behind in someone’s yard in Tennessee.

The scissors were dull and her hands were clumsy from the alcohol, and when she looked back at her reflection, she couldn’t stop the tears.

Vash leaned forward on the bathroom counter, struggling to stay conscious as Yorrick ran a comb through her hair, carefully trimming the uneven ends. He’d showed up at her room with chicken nuggets, covered in snow. She barely remembered letting him in.

“That’s as good as I can do,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

She picked her head up, nauseated by the after-image that smeared across her vision. She squinted at her reflection, barely able to make out the fact that her hair at least seemed even, short in the back by necessity, the front falling just below her jawline.

“’S perfect,” she muttered.

He slipped his arms under hers, lifting her to her feet. She groaned, the sudden movement too much.

“And now, it’s time for bed.”

He laid her down in the pillow, unsurprised to see she was already asleep. The cats emerged from under the bed, looking him over, making sure he wasn’t a threat. Venny rubbed her face against a container of food in a corner, staring at him with pleading eyes. When was the last time they ate?

They wolfed their food down like dogs, repaying his kindness by winding their way through his legs as he made his way to the door.

\---

“You’re quiet.”

Yorrick didn’t reply, lost in his thoughts. The television was on, casting harsh shadows across his face in the dark room, but he wasn’t watching it, the volume turned down low.

Benvolio slid into the hotel bed next to him on top of the blankets, draping on thin arm across Yorrick’s shoulders. “Come on Toby, I’m not supposed to be the one asking you if you’re okay.”

Yorrick exhaled heavily. “I keep thinking about Alexis.”

Benvolio sighed. “Did you at least get what you went for?”

He knew that Yorrick hadn’t. If he’d made a decision, Vacherie would either be dead, or sitting across from them helping them plan an escape. Yorrick wasn’t the type to leave his work unfinished.

“No, I didn’t…I just…I couldn’t do anything. She just…she reminded me of you.” Yorrick sighed, staring through the lights on the wall.

Benvolio pulled his arms away, standing up straight. “We’re talking about the same woman, right? Vacherie, about so tall, brown hair, has a really stupid accent? The psychopath that tried to kill us several times? And almost _succeeded_ in killing me?” He pointed at the red line above his eye. “I didn’t get this to hear that she’s ‘like me’.”

Yorrick turned around, draping one arm over the back of the couch. “Ben, she’s not stable.”

“No shit, she’s not stable. She fucking shot me!”

“And you shot her first.”

Benvolio crossed his arms childishly, saying nothing.

Yorrick sighed. “Ben, she wanted me to kill her.”

Benvolio’s face fell along with his hands. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘ _oh_ ’. And the way she said it, Ben,” his chest felt tight, constricting his voice. “It was word for word. I can’t leave her alone like that.”

“You’re such a bleeding heart. So now you’re gonna get buddy-buddy with _anyone_ who says they want to die? Start a hotline; you’ll be a god damn hero.” His voice was sharp and cold. A familiar feeling was rising in his stomach, roiling, nauseating. _He’s only doing this as a service, not because he cares. You pay him for this._

Yorrick was glaring at him. “Can you stop being so fucking selfish for a second? I care a lot more about you than I do her, but we need her alive. She’s an asset.”

“An _asset_. Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You said yourself it’s going to take a lot more than balls and guns to get Ash out of prison. She knows more about them than probably even me now; we need her. She’s the only decent woman technician we know.”

The needles were pushing into Benvolio’s head again. “What happened to ‘we don’t need her, she’s not worth it’? Haven’t you and Ash known each other since you were kids?” He was snarling like an animal, lips pulled back against his teeth, shoulders tense, voice raised.

Yorrick was watching Benvolio carefully. “Why are you so upset about this?” 

Something in Benvolio’s eyes as he snapped his head to glare at his bodyguard clicked the gears into place in Yorrick’s mind. “You…think I’m going to…”

He stood up, stepping around the couch to Benvolio, pulling him into his chest. Benvolio knew it was futile to resist – Yorrick was tall and strong, and he was thin and weak. He let himself fall limp, focusing on Yorrick’s heartbeat, deep and rhythmic. 

“I’m not going to leave you, Ben. I signed up for this.”

“Literally, on paper. It’s actually your job.”

“It’s a little more than just my job now.”

Benvolio pressed his eyes shut. _You idiot._

\---

Vash woke up to the smell of coffee. She sat up slowly, the familiar nausea filling her stomach. She reached for the cup next to her, for once not caring about how much she hated that bitter, scorched taste. It was like hatred and mud, but it warmed her up and eased her headache ever so slightly.

Judging by the amount of sunlight filtering through the curtains, it was well into the day, but she still felt like she hadn’t slept at all.

She didn’t wonder who brought the coffee until she tossed her legs over the edge of the bed and realized that the room was almost spotless. Housekeeping hadn’t been let in during her entire stay, and she was in no mental state to clean up after herself more than throwing away trash. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and her eyes darted around the room, looking for her gun.

The door pushed open, unlocked from the outside, and Yorrick backed in, arms full of laundry. He brightened when he saw she was awake. “Mornin’ sunshine!”

Vash glowered. Of course he would be one of those chatty morning people. Not exactly what she was used to, or really wanted to deal with right now, hungover as she was.

Yorrick dumped the laundry on the floor, plopping down to organize it. “When was the last time you did laundry? I think I spent ten bucks in the laundromat.”

“What’re ya doin’ here?” She remained frozen on the bed, staring at him folding her jeans in neat little piles.

“Folding clothes, obviously.”

“No, I mean…why’re ya _here_?”

“It’s Christmas. Nobody should be alone for Christmas.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What about yer mutt?”

“Ah, he’s a Scrooge. He’ll probably just get high and watch shitty movies by himself and write it up as the best holiday ever.”

Vash sipped the coffee, reluctantly satisfied in his answers.

“Ya didn’ get me anythin’ did ya?”

“I thought about it, but I don’t know what you like besides booze, and I'm not gonna get you any more of that. So I figured breakfast would have to do. Everything’s closed today but the continental, though, sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

She slid off of the bed, kneeling next to the laundry pile across from Yorrick. She set the coffee down and started folding clothes with him. “Thanks.”

“This weather is _nuts_ ,” Vash muttered, watching the group of children outside roll snowmen out of the inches that had fallen the night before. “I ain’t seen it snow down here since I was a kid.”

“I had to shovel the car out yesterday when we left Indiana, and it’s parked in the garage. At least down here you get to have fun with it.”

Her reply was dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah. Lotta fun ‘ere.”

“You have your cats at least.” Matty engulfed his sizable lap, kneading his leg. He winced against her claws, punching through his jeans. He refused to disturb her.

“They don’t like me no more after all the drivin’. An’ I’m…plannin’ on goin’ somewhere I can’t take ‘em. So, no, don't really got the cats either.”

Yorrick felt uneasy at her choice of words. It sounded familiar.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I ain't really have a choice.” She looked down at Matty, content and purring, her long plumed tail twitching ever so slightly to the rhythm of Yorrick’s hand. Across the room, Venny gazed out of the window, lost in her own world, the sun glittering on her fur. “They’re pretty enough. Someone’ll want ‘em.”

“You don’t have to leave, you know.”

“I don’ have anywhere else to go. Too dangerous to stay in the States now. Every day I’m expectin’ to wake up to the feds bustin’ my door in, but so far it's just you.”

“You could come to Indiana. Help us get Ash out.”

She stared at the soda she'd been drinking. “It’s better if I don’t.”

“I think you’re wrong.” He looked over at her. “I know you don’t feel like you can help, but we could use you.”

Vash’s eyes burned, but no tears came. There wasn’t anything left inside her to cry. “I waited too long.”

“There’s still time to make it up to them, I promse.”

“How d’ ya make up for this? For running away and leaving them to rot? It's been months, Toby.”

“Better to show up late than never, in my opinion. You two can figure out the rest later.” He turned back to her. “You still have a chance, Lex.”

She didn’t reply.

He stood up, reluctantly eradicating the cat from his lap. “If nothing else, let me know before you leave, okay?”

She tipped her head back, the last drop of soda falling into her mouth. “Yeah. Sure.”

She kept her back to him, as he pulled on his coat and boots, pushing his keys into his pockets. His heavy footsteps shook the floor as he walked to the door, pulling it open.

“Hey, Yorrick.”

He stopped, letting the door click shut. “Yeah?”

“Would ya take the cats?”

\---

“You’re _kidding_ me.”

“Ben, I couldn’t tell her no, she was just so upset about having to leave them at a shelter, and they were all she had left-”

Benvolio crossed his arms, his headache worsening. Yorrick stood in front of him, holding two plastic carriers containing very distraught calicos.

“I don’t like cats.”

“They can stay in my old apartment I swear. You don’t have to ever see them.”

Benvolio frowned. In her crate, Venetia let out a plaintiful meow.

“Ben, please. They were all she had and she wanted me to take them so they’d be safe.”

Yorrick was giving him the big brown eyes, looking down at him like a lost puppy. A huge, blonde, freckled puppy.

Oh, fuck it, it was Christmas.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_January_

Ohache watched their breath form clouds in front of their face, dissipating as fast as they appeared. The cold air carried sound better than it ever had, the clicking of shoes across concrete floors, voices traveling through cracks in solid walls. There was so little to hear here.

The footsteps traveled up their lonely hallway, stopping in front of their door.

_If you’re asking of I want to take a shower, the answer is no,_ they thought. The answer is always no. People die in the showers, blades pressing between their ribs, through skin and muscle and into their hearts, hands wrapped around necks, denying air, fists striking from behind, blood seeping into the drains.

They shivered, wrapping their thin arms around their waist, trying vainly to keep heat in their wasting body. Their fingers felt numb, even though they pressed into their arms with enough force to leave marks. _At least when you freeze to death, your brain shuts down and you feel warm, and happy, just for a moment._

Stephanie pushed the door open with gloved hands, propping it open with her boot. Ohache caught her giving them a distasteful face, but they had stopped caring a long time ago.

“You look like you need this,” she said, tossing a blanket at Ohache. It landed, still folded, on the floor, next to Ohache’s cot.

Ohache sat up, wrapping the blanket around their shoulders, instantly feeling the effects of even another thin layer over their jumpsuit. Heat slowly seeped through their thin blood, struggling to keep them alive against their will.

“It’s probably five below outside,” Stephanie had said as she held the cell door open to hand Ohache the blanket. “They’re making us give everyone blankets and socks and shit. Usually ad seg doesn’t get anything, but you must be someone special.”

Ohache missed the obvious undertones in her voice, focusing on the texture of the blanket, the pattern stitched into it, the way it felt over their shoulders. It was rough cotton knit, but it felt like cashmere on their skin.

“They didn’t tell me who sent this, but it’s thicker than the ones we usually dish out. Someone out there likes you, apparently.” She turned, the door squealing shut slightly as her center of gravity shifted and her foot couldn’t hold the door. When she pushed it back open, she was holding a tray with a bowl of something steaming. “Your buddy asked to get you this, too. Happy new year, kid.”

Ohache’s eyes moved up to her face slowly, struggling to focus on her. New year.

Stephanie set the tray on the floor and closed the door.

Ohache held their hand over the soup, their nerves igniting from the heat rising off of its surface. They wanted to drink it, the pit in their stomach deepening by the day, but it was hot, and they were cold, and if they drank it they would shatter like so much hand-blown glass.

Through the walls, they thought they heard the boom of fireworks in the distance, the phantom sound sending lightning through their mind, images of blood and black hair flashing behind their eyes.

_Why did you shoot him?_

_I was trying to protect you._ Vash’s voice echoed in Ohache’s head, but she wouldn’t look at them, wouldn’t turn around.

“You didn’t do a good job of it,” they whispered aloud, their voice small in the frigid room. They could practically see her shift her weight to one leg, cross her arms, and grab her bicep tightly

_I tried, Ash. I wouldn’t do that for just anyone._

“Right, Lex. You tried right up until I got arrested.” They were momentarily distracted by the water vapor in front of their face, like smoke in the air. “You tried until it got hard. Now I’m in _prison_ , Lex, and I’m never getting out because you’re not going to try, and I’m going to die alone.” They shivered.

Ohache could see Vash’s phantom moving towards them, the last memory of their partner trying to help, and they turned their back. They had no use for ghosts anymore.

They reached under the cot, fishing out the calculus book and a pen they’d managed to beg their regular guard for. They’d solved all the problems multiple times over, but the constancy of the solutions and the feel of the pen’s nib as they wrote down their work shut out the voices in their head, just for a little while.

The ink on their arms had kept them alive to see the new year.

Shame they wouldn’t survive to see the next.

\---

“First you bring home two…” There was a pause, the curl in Benvolio’s voice obvious through the door. “Animals…and now _she’s_ here?”

“Can you just let us in?” 

Yorrick was glaring into the peephole in the hotel door, shaking his leg to keep the blood moving. Next to him, Vash looked like she had been seconds from going into hypothermia, laden in a heavy coat and Ohache’s scarf – the only one she managed to grab. The temperature was nearing zero outside, and the sun hadn’t been seen in days. The only saving grace is it wasn’t actively snowing, though the leftovers from days past had piled around their legs.

Benvolio unlatched the chain, allowing the two inside. Vash hissed as she pulled off her hat and scarf, rubbing her hands to acclimate to the warmth inside the room.

Benvolio recoiled at her appearance. “Holy shit, how long have you been dead?”

Vash shot him a look. “’Bout as long as you, apparently.”

Yorrick was trying to ignite his employer with his eyes. “Your interpersonal skills are just _fantastic_ today.”

“What? She looks awful.”

“Yeah, and so do you with two hours of sleep, but I don’t tell you about it.”

Benvolio shrugged. “Just keep her away from me until she puts her face on or whatever it is girls do in the bathroom.”

Yorrick punched him in the chest, leaving his employer wheezing in the doorway as he followed Vash inside, weaving his way around bags of ammunition and communication equipment.

\---

The door opened again at the crack of dawn, jolting Ohache out of a rare, fitful sleep, wrapped up in the blanket they’d been given weeks ago. Or was it days, months? They didn’t know anymore.

They were lifted roughly to their feet by two guards they didn’t recognize, handcuffs snapped to their wrists, always too tight, rubbing welts into their skin. Ohache opened their mouth to ask what was going on, but all that came out was a rough groan, their voice cracking from disuse, their tongue too thick to form words. A matching pair of silver cuffs were snapped around their ankles, and Ohache was panicking now, an animal who had never known a collar.

“I don’t need to ask if you have belongings, do I?” One of the guards asked, looking around the empty room. Her eyes found the calculus book lying on the floor, and she grabbed it, shoving it in her pocket.

They struggled to ask her what she was going to do with it, trying to force their mouth to say words, but they didn’t come, and all Ohache could do was stare helplessly at the bulge in the guard’s jacket as they were pulled to their feet and forced out of the door on shaking legs.

The guards held Ohache’s arms the entire trek down the ad seg hallways, despite the lack of muscle being obvious even through their clothes. The change in scenery was overloading Ohache’s senses, the relative activity of the open areas of the prison, the flashes of colour and movement and sound, mixing up inside their mind. They were led into the front lobby, concrete floors giving way to white tile, clicking underneath the heels of the guards’ shoes. A line of other inmates waited patiently, and a chain was fed through the metal band around Ohache’s leg, connecting them to the line.

Single file they marched, out of the front doors and into the morning light, the sudden barrage of colour blinding Ohache momentarily. It was bitter cold, snow drifting lazily from gray clouds to pile alongside the driveway. The air burned Ohache’s lungs, thick clouds of exhalation forming down the chain. They stood, rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the line of gold peering over the peaks of the tree-covered mountains, until the band around their leg jerked them forward, pulled by the train toward the white bus parked into the driveway.

The bus was warm inside, and Ohache found that they had grown accustomed to being cold, their environment becoming too hot very quickly as they were chained to their uncomfortable plastic seats. They struggled vainly to pull their sleeves up with their knees, eventually giving up as the guards passed by to double-check that everyone was unable to move from where they sat.

The guards were talking to the driver, questioning her, scrutinizing her paperwork, catching Ohache’s attention. They thought she was surprisingly pretty, her skin smooth like she was wearing makeup, freckles perfectly dotting her cheeks. Her voice sounded off to Ohache, the words not quite right, the way she said them unnatural to their ears.

“Hilary will be your security.” The guard turned to call out to someone, and the driver adjusted the walkie on her chest. She shifted her weight to one leg, and Ohache felt that the movement was somehow familiar.

A moment passed, and Hilary stepped on the bus, sliding into the seat behind the driver.

The driver put the key into the ignition. “I already went see Pam, so we’re ready to go when you are. We’ve got a long drive to Texas.”

The bus lurched to life, pulling out of the parking lot with a hiss and a cloud of vaporous exhaust. As it turned, the sun flashed into Ohache’s eyes, tearing their attention from the front of the bus and to the world outside the window, the sunrise painting the snow-covered landscape pink and red and gold.

Ohache was jolted awake by their face bumping roughly into the window as the bus squealed to a stop. Outside, the sun reflected harshly over a thin layer of snow covering everything, including the wrought iron gates heralding their entrance to yet another prison complex. Ohache’s heart fell. They’d slept through almost the entire trip, the exhaustion too much to stave off under the gentle rocking and rhythmic sound of the bus’ engine. They’d missed probably the last cross-country scenery they’d ever see in their life.

New guards were waiting when they arrived, checking papers, barking orders, deciding where the cargo would be sent, divided like animals into stalls. Ohache felt exhausted as they were stood up, lined up, preparing to be sent to stare at another set of cold gray walls.

A hand clapped Ohache on the shoulder, and their heart jumped into their throat, frozen in place. The driver’s fingers dug into their collarbone uncomfortably as she leaned forward to catch the attention of one of the guards.

“45 doesn’t go with everyone else, they’re headed to ad seg directly.” That strange, unnatural cadence in her voice was even more evident this close.

Ohache was pulled from the line and sat back down in a front-row seat, their shackles secured to the floor once more. They craned their neck back, trying to get a glimpse of the outside, something, anything, a memory to hold on to before they were locked behind a solid steel door again.

The bus pulled left the parking lot, going down a gravel side road that circled the outside of the cell blocks.

“You do know that ad seg inmates have to check into the front with everyone else, right?” Hilary asked, leaning forward in her chair, trying to see the driver’s face.

“This is a special situation. The kid’s violent and they don’t want them near the other inmates.”

“Okay, but I don’t think this is the way to that block.”

Hilary stood up, her hand moving to her walkie, turning the dial to find the frequency this prison used. “Hello? Hey can we get some directions out here?” A high pitched tone pierced through the static, and nobody answered. “Hello?”

Thus bus started slowing, the air brakes hissing and the engine settling into an idle grind. Outside, Ohache could only see the wire-topped prison wall, white from the sparse snowfall. Hilary leaned toward the window, peering into the woods outside the prison grounds.

She started to straighten, started to reach for her walkie again, but she never made it, because that’s when the driver stepped around her barrier swinging a pair of bolt cutters.

\---

“This isn’t…” Ohache’s cracked whisper trailed off as the doors of the bus opened, cold night air rushing inside.

The driver laid Hilary on the floor gingerly, making sure she was still breathing before turning to face Ohache, clamping the bolt cutters around the links of the chain anchoring Ohache to the floor. “Yeah, this ain’t ad seg.” Her voice was harsher now, deeper. Less unnatural. She leaned her weight into the chain, snapping it with a loud crack. “Come on.”

They hesitated, just for a moment, their mind racing, paranoia creeping up in the back of their head. They didn’t know this woman, what she wanted with them, who she worked for. For all they knew, she was leading them out into the prairie to murder them, or worse. Slavery, rape, torture, every scenario raced through their head.

_Or maybe she’s here to save you._

She grabbed Ohache’s sleeve, jerking them to their feet, shoving them down the aisle. “I ain’t got time for ya to make up yer mind,” she hissed.

Ohache stumbled out in the snow, panic clouding their mind. This is how it ends, the middle of nowhere, on the snow-covered road, at the edge of the woods. Hopefully it was a gunshot, quick, relatively painless. _Please don’t let me go like Hilary, please_.

A black car pulled out of a side road, and Ohache felt the last shreds of their spirit leave their body. Their knees locked underneath them, and the driver was forced to catch them by the arm, dragging them to their feet again. Their thin arms were no match for her, despite her being several inches shorter, and they were forced bodily into the back seat. Ohache squeezed their eyes shut, ready for the inevitable blow that would put them out until they reached whatever hellhole they would die in tonight. The smell of smoke burned their lungs.

There was only the rumble of the car’s engine as it started.

“And…there. None the wiser.” The sound of a laptop closing.

“Until they find out they’re missing someone.”

“And by then we’ll be long gone.”

Ohache knew those voices. “Ben?” they asked, finding a little more volume in their voice.

Benvolio turned around in the seat to face them. “Hey Red, how’s it goin’?”

Yorrick waved into the rear-view mirror from the driver’s seat, his eyes bright but his face exhausted.

Ohache was overwhelmed, unable to process what had happened. “You got me out.”

“Yeah, you can thank us later.” Benvolio tossed them set of lock picks. “Take care of those bracelets. And there’s something less conspicuous to wear somewhere back there.”

It took longer than normal to pick the handcuffs, their hands clumsy and out of practice. They didn’t realize they were shaking until they were staring out of the window at the snow-covered highway, dressed in their own clothes, trying to remember how to breathe.

\---

Ohache wasn’t sure what to do.

They stood in the corner of a grocery store parking lot, illuminated by a distant security light that threated to go out, shivering in the cold. Benvolio and Yorrick leaned against the rental car behind them, arms crossed.

Across from them, Vash was stepping out of that familiar black Mustang, looking like she'd just woken up from a nap, barefaced, in a jacket and jeans and a short brown wig. Barely a disguise.

In all those months of confinement, Ohache had no one to talk to and too much to say. Now, the words caught in their throat, unable to escape. Something in the back of their head gnawed at them, and they knew if they let it out it would explode into violence.

“It ain’t supposed to be this cold in fuckin’ Texas,” Vash hissed. 

“Hell fuckin’ froze over,” Benvolio said, crossing his arms casually, more relaxed than one would imagine someone who’d just performed a jailbreak would normally be. 

Vash was glaring at Benvolio in a way that made Ohache guess that his personality hadn’t grown on her much during their incarceration. “Alright, I’m freezin’ my tits off out here.” She tossed her head toward the car behind her. “Let’s get the hell outta Dallas.”

Ohache felt Vash and Yorrick staring at them, urging them to make a move. The force of their eyes made them weak; Vash’s stone cold expression, expecting them to slide into the passenger seat again, and they’d leave, just like they always had. They looked up at Yorrick, watching them with expectancy, and they could guess his thoughts. _Do you pick the one that used to be your best friend, or the one you sacrificed everything for?_

Suddenly they weren’t in a frozen Texas parking lot, but a landing strip in Washington, choking on exhaust fumes, hearing the sentence that ruined their life echo in their head.

_“Well, you’re an adult. Make your choice.”_

They had picked Vash then, despite the relative safety Benvolio and Yorrick promised them. They’d picked Vash, because she wasn’t afraid, and they thought she cared.

What had they been thinking?

They looked up at her, leaning against her car, and everything bitter inside them roiled up to the top, everything vile that they’d realized about her, so many imagined conversations, spoken to the walls. And she let it happen. She let them lie on the floor for months on end, alone with their thoughts, analyzing everything about her, their opinion slowly changing from idolization, to apathy, to a bitter poison that set in their stomach like a stone. She hadn’t even shown her face, leaving them to die a prisoner. Ohache had sacrificed everything for her, their future, their name, their life, all for someone who wouldn’t even help them escape.

They didn’t realize they were stepping backwards until they saw her face change, eyes growing wide.

“Ash?“

The pain her voice would have shattered Ohache six months ago. Now, they felt as numb as their fingers in the cold.

“I’m going with Toby.”

“What-“ Her voice wavered on the edge of stability.

“Shut up, Alexis. Just leave.”

They walked away from her, deliberately not looking back. If they did, they knew their resolve would waver, they’d get in her car, and the two of them would drive away together, pretending they were happy, leaving anything they had to say in this parking lot. They couldn’t do that. They couldn’t spend their life living like everything was fine anymore.

They couldn’t be like her.

“Ash, are you sure?” Yorrick’s voice was soft, comforting, worried.

The anger clawed at Ohache’s mind, struggling to be let free. “Yes. Let’s just go.”

They slid into the seat of the car, pushing their hair away out of their eyes. Their face was wet. When did they start crying?

The car pulled out of the parking lot, and they realized they were looking out of the heavily tinted window, just able to see Vash’s silhouette, leaning against the trunk of her car, head in her hands.

And that was when they broke.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_January_

Ash’s eyes stung as Yorrick flipped the light on, the white walls too stark a contrast against the dark wooden flooring of Benvolio’s penthouse. They faltered in the doorway, knowing for sure if they stepped across that hallway between the elevator bay and the front door, they’d wake up from their dream and find themselves staring at cold gray walls.

“Move, kid.” Benvolio’s voice felt disconnected from Ohache’s perception, but the feeling of being jolted forward as he slapped them on the back, knocking them off balance, was very real. They put a foot over the threshold to catch themselves, and they opened their eyes to find they were still in reality, Benvolio pushing around them and heading immediately up a set of polished wooden stairs.

“Come on, you can stay in my room.” Yorrick took Ohache by the arm, leading them through the living room and into the kitchen, turning the knob of a door that didn’t seem to belong.

The servant’s apartment was small and homey, and Ohache was overwhelmed with memories of Chicago. It felt so long ago, the two of them sitting on the couch, not unlike the one in Yorrick’s living room now, playing video games and drinking way too much soda. 

Their vision blurred when they pushed open the bedroom door and saw the old calico quilt on the bed, the same one they made forts out of, talking about their feelings in the middle of the night. Back before the fog rolled in.

They didn’t ask Yorrick where he was going to sleep. They didn’t care. All they felt was an overwhelming exhaustion, and they fell face-first onto Yorrick’s bed.

\---

Ohache’s eyes snapped open, panic gripping their chest in cold claws. They were in a bed, with a blanket, in a t-shirt and jeans, and the nightstand next to the bed bore a stack of dusty books – all in hardback. 

This wasn’t prison. This wasn’t a dream.

They padded into the bathroom - a proper bathroom, with black and white tile flooring - and stood at the sink, staring at themselves in the mirror. God, they looked awful. Their hair was greasy and unkempt, inches of dark auburn roots showing under faded red dye. Their face was thin, their eyes dark, the shirt that fit them comfortably four months ago hanging off their shoulders.

When was the last time they’d had a shower? They couldn’t remember. Probably the night before they got arrested.

Gross. Gross, gross, gross.

They pulled their clothes off, tossing them as far away from themselves as they could in the small bathroom, turning the shower up as hot as they could stand. They couldn’t get clean enough, scrubbing their skin raw and using half of Yorrick’s brand new bottle of shampoo in their hair, unable to get the feeling of grease off of their fingers.

They stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out, forcing them back into the real world. Their hair was longer than it had been since they were thirteen; hanging down in front of their eyes, even after they rubbed it dry with a towel. It had grown out so much that it was too heavy to stick up like it used to.

The ambient air in the apartment sent goosebumps across their skin as they stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel pulled up over their chest. They grimaced, realizing that they only had one set of clothes, and that it was covered in four months of prison grime. They looked toward the antique wardrobe in the corner, but decided that trying to wear Yorrick’s clothes would prove a disaster.

Ohache carefully stepped out of the bedroom, silently padding through the kitchen and into the living room. The apartment was empty. They had expected Yorrick to sleep on the couch, but it was bare. In fact, the entire apartment was spotlessly tidy, but now they realized they could smell dust, like nothing had been touched in weeks. Unease began to crawl up Ohache’s neck, their stomach twisting into knots.

Something brushed against Ohache’s leg, and they suppressed a screech, jumping away from the door and nearly losing their towel in the process.

At their feet was a familiar face, an audible purr filling the air around them.

“Venny,” they breathed, and something about the sight of Vash’s cat at their feet, in Yorrick’s apartment, a thousand miles away from Louisiana, triggered an explosion in their mind.

They didn’t realize they’d been making noise until Yorrick threw the apartment door open.

“Ash what the fuck, are you okay?”

He looked down at Ohache, frozen in fear, Venetia rubbing figure eights on their legs.

“Ash?”

They tried to catch their breath. “Why is. Cat.”

Yorrick tried to choose his words carefully. “Vash couldn’t stay at her house and she didn’t want them to get stressed driving around.”

“Driving.”

“She had to keep moving so she could stay safe.”

Yorrick wasn’t sure if he was getting through completely, but Ohache seemed to calm down.

They suddenly seemed to realize they were still in a towel, blue eyes flicking up to meet his. “I don’t have any clothes.”

“Oh.” Yorrick ducked out of the apartment, his footsteps sounding up the stairs. He returned within a few moments, handing them a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Their t-shirt. Their jeans. Not new ones, ones they'd owned for years.

He looked down at Ohache, holding the towel tightly across their chest.

“Oh…I don’t…have anything for you to wear under-“

Ohache grimaced. “It’s fine. I’ll just wear what I wore yesterday.”

Yorrick gave them a pained face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it.”

“It’s fine.” Their hand tightened on the towel. “I did it for four months, I can do it a while longer. I want a jacket, though.”

Yorrick handed Ohache the clothes. Ohache didn't ask where they came from.

Yorrick’s jacket floated on them, but Ohache didn’t care. In fact, the way it hid the shape of their body made them feel more comfortable. If only they were comfortable with their surroundings as well.

“How are you doing?” Yorrick asked, opening a soda.

The smell of the carbonation made Ohache’s stomach turn. “I’m alive.”

“I guess I can’t ask for more than that.”

They sat in silence, the TV turned down across from them, simply background noise, something to look at. Yorrick picked up the remote, cycling through channels, trying to find something that wasn’t one wet shirt away from softcore porn to watch.

“Did they have anything about me on the news?” Ohache asked, eyes distant.

“Not national, no. I’ve heard some chatter on the police radios. They’re looking, but at least they don’t consider you a real risk anymore.”

Ohache wanted to ask about Vash, but the thought of her made bile rise in their throat. “How long do you think before they come after me?”

Yorrick shrugged. “Technically you’re safe here. Even the FBI knows better than to fuck with the Mercutios. If you want to be able to live normally again, though…” he trailed off.

“I’m not having face surgery.”

Yorrick noticed the catch in his friend’s throat. “I wasn’t going to suggest it.”

Ohache woke up with a start from a nightmare they couldn’t remember, realizing Matty was sitting on their chest, purring, gently kneading her claws into their collarbone. They stroked her head absently, watching the clouds move across the rapidly dimming sky outside the window.

“You like it here, Matty?” They asked her.

She purred.

“Toby always wanted cats. He’ll be good to you.”

Over the sound of Matty’s purring, Ohache could hear muffled conversation filtering under the closed door. They could hear Yorrick’s voice, too, a familiar sound that made them feel safe, but it was followed immediately by the low roll of Benvolio’s, somehow threatening even when having a normal conversation.

The dark corners in the room started shimmering, and Ohache wished he’d shut up or go away, either one. Their heart rate spiked, suddenly feeling very vulnerable, the weight of the cat on their chest overbearing.

_You’re trapped here_ , came a whisper, and Matty’s eyes were staring right through Ohache. They opened their mouth to call out, but the apartment door swung open, and the cat vacated Ohache’s chest in favour of greeting her new caretaker.

“Hey, you want dinner?” The smell of something his mother used to cook wafted into the apartment behind him.

The smell made Ohache gag. They shook their head apologetically. “Can’t eat.”

Something flashed in Yorrick’s eyes that Ohache didn’t understand. “Okay.”

Yorrick turned to walk away, but Ohache sat up, looking up at him pleadingly. “Don’t leave. Please.” They swallowed. “The cats are talking to me.”

“Okay.”

Yorrick shut the door behind him, turning on a lamp on his way to the couch. When he sat down, Ohache curled up beside him, head in his lap.

The two of them sat on the couch, watching a movie on TV, Yorrick's hand on their shoulder, their knees tucked against their stomach. The distraction was keeping them calm now, but he knew it would be a long night.

He wasn’t sure what time it was when Benvolio cracked open the apartment door.

“Hey. I’m going to bed.”

Yorrick felt Ohache’s breathing stop under his hand.

He looked up at Benvolio, knowing what he wanted. Yorrick shook his head, giving Benvolio an apologetic face. “’Night.”

Benvolio didn’t say anything.

Yorrick met his eyes. “Text me if you need me.”

Benvolio shut the door.

Yorrick patted Ohache’s shoulder. “Breathe.”

On command, Ohache released the air they’d been holding, gasping for their next breaths. They stood up from the couch, walking to the apartment door and locking the deadbolt.

Yorrick felt a tightness in his chest as Ohache started to walk back towards him. “I’m sorry. It’s his penthouse, though, you know.”

“Why do you have to live here?” They asked, their voice strained.

“It’s my job.”

“Yeah, you told me, it’s your job, you follow him around to make sure he doesn’t die. It’s a full-time gig because he’s a mob boss’ son. That doesn’t mean you have to _live_ with him.”

“I told you, it got more complicated than that.”

“Why? Are you fucking him, too?”

Yorrick didn’t answer.

Ohache stopped walking.

\---

Benvolio heard the footsteps coming up the stairs and tossed himself back into his bed, propping his chin up on his arm, his shirt only half unbuttoned. He took deep breath as the door opened, adjusting his position, ready for his big blonde boyfriend to finally-

Benvolio doubled over, coughing harshly as Ohache burst through his bedroom door. “Jesus Christ, Red,” he choked. “Warn me before you come in.”

Ohache stood in the doorway, fists trembling, looking like they may catch fire. It would have been hilarious if Benvolio didn’t know the look in their eye all too well. There was a barely-controlled rage in that kid, and something had thrown gasoline onto it. 

“What’s your plan?” Their voice shook as much as their hands.

Benvolio’s eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped. “What plan?” What had this kid figured out?

“Bullshit, Ben, you know what I’m talking about.” Venom dripped from their lips. “When are you planning on breaking his heart?”

Benvolio leaned forward, elbows on his knees. _Toby_. “I’m _not_ planning on it.”

Ohache’s eyes were tearing up. “Bullshit. I know you. All you do is ruin lives. I’m not going to let you hurt my best friend.”

“Chill, kiddo. I’m telling the truth.”

Ohache crossed their arms.

_Fine, I’ll tell you the juicy personal bits, you nosy fucking child_. “I’m not leaving Tobias unless it’s in a hearse, and that’s been put on hold for now.” He paused, looking past Ohache, past the wall. “He’s the only decent person I know. Gotta hang onto that.”

“If you ever hurt him, I swear to God, Benvolio...” Ohache’s voice was a low growl.

Benvolio looked back up at them, staring them in the eye. “Don’t worry, I plan on shooting myself if I do.”

\---

Yorrick lay on his couch, holding his phone over his face, unable to sleep, every tiny noise ringing like an alarm in his head. Bodyguard sense.

A new message made his phone vibrate in his hand, but he already had the conversation open.

_You told them. I had a visitor._

Yorrick sighed. _It was going to come out eventually. At least it was me telling them instead of Ash walking in or something_

_That would have been hilarious._

_Ben >:( It’s not funny_

_It is to me. Bet it blew their mind._

_They definitely were not in a stable enough mental state for that information_

_I could tell, oh my god. Amazing._

Yorrick changed to another app, scrolling through posts, looking for anything interesting to read. His phone vibrated again.

_Are they still awake?_

_No, but I probably should stay down here. Sorry_

There was a long moment before the reply.

_I see. Night._

Yorrick dropped his phone on his chest, pressing his palms to his forehead, pulling at his hair. 

\---

Yorrick woke suddenly in the middle of the night. He lay on the couch, listening to the wind blow outside, trying to figure out why he was awake. It didn’t take terribly long before he heard an all too familiar whimper drift through the half-open bedroom door.

He sighed, sitting up, running his fingers through his hair, thinking he really did need to get a haircut, whenever he found time.

Ohache had suffered from insomnia as long as Yorrick had known them. The bleary stare in the mornings after a long night of nightmares was a characteristic than had been around since before they met Vash, before they started working for Benvolio, before they even broke into their first house.

_Add melatonin to the ever increasing list of things to get Monday_ , Yorrick thought as he made his way to the bedroom. He paused at the door, realizing that the whimpering had turned into a heavy, shaking sobs.

“Ash,” he said softly, tapping on the door with a knuckle. No response. “I’m gonna come in, okay?”

He pushed the door open, preparing himself for whatever mess Ohache had made in his room. The quilt had been tossed in a corner, his stack of books strewn across the floor, open to random pages and forgotten, a notebook with the pages torn out and left scattered across Yorrick’s dresser. He wasn’t surprised.

Ohache was in a corner, a notebook in their lap, head down.

“Hey, Ash,” Yorrick said, waving at them.

“Sup, Toby.” Their eyes were red, and they forced an empty smile.

Yorrick’s stomach felt like it had a rock in it, the uncomfortable casualness of it all much too familiar.

“Sorry I made a mess,” Ohache said, their voice shaking.

“It’s fine. We have maids for a reason.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, looking down at his friend, trying to catch their eye. “Hey, Ash. You know you can tell me if you’re having trouble.”

“I know…I know. But…” Ohache dropped their head. “This is the first time in years we’ve gotten to hang out, and here I am ruining it with my shitty head. Again."

Yorrick leaned on his knees. “Dude, you were in _prison_. You have an excuse.” He slid off of the bed, sitting across from Ohache on the floor. “Your head is more important than chilling.”

“I need my book,” they said softly. “I don’t have anything else to help me.”

“What book?”

The question terrified Ohache. “My calculus book. They picked it up when they took me to the bus and I never got it back, I don’t know what they did with it.” Their voice was audibly catching. “It’s…I think the only reason I’m still alive.”

Yorrick wanted pull them into him and fix everything. “I don’t think we got it. Sorry.”

They inhaled wetly, breath shuddering. “I need _something_.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

They tried to calm their breathing for a long moment, struggling to hide their distress.

“I keep dreaming about the dire wolf,” they said.

“Dire wolf?”

Ohache looked up at Yorrick, his face illuminated harshly from the light pollution streaming through the blinds, and they were overwhelmed with nostalgia. “I stole a dire wolf skeleton...with Lex.”

They stared at him, and Yorrick could see the struggle in their mind to tell him what they wanted.

“I…the dire wolf. That’s when things started going wrong, Toby. I…killed somebody that night.” They lost composure, the tears running freely down their face. “I can’t deal with this weight anymore. I _killed_ someone, Toby. All for a literal bag of bones.” They were staring through the floor, staring at nothing. “And ever since then it’s been showing up in my nightmares.

“I never told Lex. I don’t think she’d get it, the voices, you know? Normal people don't get it. But it…” They swallowed harshly. “It told me everything was falling apart. And that we wouldn’t be okay.”

Yorrick felt his throat tighten, the memory of Vash’s voice in his head, empty and soulless. _You held onto this all this time?_

He put a hand on Ohache’s, and they turned their palms up, grabbing his fingers with all the strength they had in their thin arms.

“I don’t…really understand the anxiety stuff, but isn’t it kind of…a thing that voices tell you bad things like that? That it’s just in your head?”

“Yeah. Yeah you’re right. But we’d been talking about ghosts and spirits, and…I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s me or something else. It doesn’t sound like me, Toby, I _know_ me. The dire wolf’s something else.” They were squeezing his hand so tight he felt the bones grind together.

“Why didn’t you tell Alexis? I thought you two were…” he didn’t finish the sentence.

Ohache shook their head. “She wouldn’t believe me. She's…normal, she's not like me. She’d think I was crazy and I…” Their voice faltered again. “I can’t deal with that.”

Yorrick couldn’t handle it. He pulled Ohache into his chest, holding them tight as their shoulders were racked with sobs. “I wish you’d have called me. You shouldn’t have had to deal with this by yourself.”

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

Yorrick squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re so much more important that whatever I could have possibly been doing.”

A fresh wave of tears came, their face buried in his shirt. “I feel like I’ve lost everything.”


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_January_

Vash slid the papers into the fax machine in the business office of her hotel in Gatesville, trying to remember how to work these god-awful contraptions. She hadn’t touched one since 2003, and even then they were pieces of shit. _Why couldn’t I have just emailed this to you? Fucking government offices._

The pages slid through the scanner, spitting out the other end and into her hands.

“You sure this gonna get to him tonight?” She said into her phone, propped against her shoulder.

“I’ve put priority on you, so the whole thing should be done by the beginning of next month.”

It was the twenty-sixth. It better not take too much longer.

“I kinda need this before then. I need to get out before shit gets bad.”

“You people are so dramatic; what do you think is gonna happen? Nobody’s gonna come after you.” She could practically hear him waving his hands. “But whatever, I get it, gotta be erased right now, I get it.”

On a better day she’d lay into him for that comment, but she didn’t feel much of anything. “Just get me outta here,” she said.

“I’ll do my best, but you know how they are in that office.”

The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open. “Thanks, Mitch.”

\---

Ohache tried. They really, really did.

Yorrick was a surprisingly good cook. It must have run in the family; his mom could make spreads to rival kings’ banquets, and in a past life Ohache would make excuses to stay at his house just to have dinner with them.

But they hadn’t eaten a proper meal in months. Regardless, they tried, because they could see the lines behind Yorrick’s eyes when they turned away food, and they trusted that at least Yorrick wouldn’t try to poison them.

Benvolio, maybe. But he seemed to stay far away from the kitchen, much to Ohache’s relief.

The smell alone made their stomach feel like it was trying to escape. Yorrick was doing his best not to watch them, sitting across from them at the end of Benvolio’s mile-long dining table, but they could still feel his attention on them.

They tried to steel themselves to eat, but the thought of how it would taste made their mouth full with sand. Their throat burned.

“I…need to leave,” they muttered, and Yorrick’s eyes snapped to their face immediately. Ohache pushed themselves away from the table and darting back into Yorrick’s apartment, muttering an apology with a strained voice.

“Hey, I’m going to the pharmacy,” Yorrick, said softly, pushing the bedroom door open. “You want me to get you anything while I’m out?”

“Brain,” they muttered from the floor.

“That’s what I’m getting. And sleep meds.”

Ohache grunted a response.

When Yorricks’ footsteps stopped echoing through the cavern that was the penthouse living room, Ohache dragged themselves to their feet, despite the nausea, into the bathroom. The cabinet was stocked with various over-the-counter drugs, but none of them looked like anything that would soothe Ohache’s stomach.

Silently they padded out of the apartment and up the stairs into Benvolio’s room. It was surprisingly neat, as was the rest of the penthouse, everything white and black and silver. The king-sized bed dominated the middle of the room, an ashtray on one black wood bedside table, a book on the other, Yorrick’s small influence. Ohache pushed open a door next to a painting that cost probably millions of dollars, into a glittering white tile bathroom. Benvolio did like his monochrome, apparently.

The medicine cabinet was nearly overflowing, and Ohache didn’t recognize the majority of what was in it. What they did recognize came in multiples, and Ohache wondered how sick Benvolio kept getting to warrant this many bottles of acetaminophen. They grabbed a random bottle, twisting the cap open and spilling several pills into their hand.

“Be careful with those,” came a voice behind Ohache, startling them so badly they dropped everything they were holding. Pills went skittering across the tile, Ohache slapping their legs, trying to catch them.

Benvolio leaned against the doorframe. “That shit’ll fuck you up.”

“It’s just painkillers,” Ohache replied, picking up the dropped pills from the floor.

“Yeah, really strong ones. You’re gonna want the other bottle.”

Ohache found the bottle on the floor, turning it over. “It says acetaminophen.”

“It’s not. Trust me.”

“What is it?”

“Methadone, I think. Might be oxycodone. I forgot.”

Ohache dropped the bottle again. “Why the fuck do you have these?”

“Because I get headaches sometimes, shit, why do you _think_ I have them?” Benvolio rolled his eyes. “They'll just make the nausea worse, anyway."

Ohache had picked up the bottle of what they had hoped was actual acetaminophen, but they put it down at Benvolio’s words. They stared at him, eyes narrow.

Benvolio pushed off of the doorframe, walking towards them. “Like it or not, Red, we’re a lot alike.” He took the bottle of pills from them, setting them back in the cabinet. “We both enjoy taking things that aren’t necessarily ours, we both like blondes, and neither of us can stand the idea of eating.”

He shut the cabinet. “The point is, you aren’t gonna feel better by filling yourself with drugs. Trust me.”

“I don’t.” Ohache was backing away from Benvolio, looking for a way around him, looking for something to grab to hit him with should he make a move.

“Jesus, kid, if I wanted you dead you would be. Relax."

Lightning shot up Ohache’s neck.

“Why would I tell you not to take my pills if I was looking for a way to kill you?” Benvolio leaned against the counter. “Honestly, it’d be too easy. Even if I’d given them to you on purpose I could always have said it was an accident.”

“Toby would kill you either way.”

“And I would finally be free of this miserable existence.”

Ohache met his eyes. There was something behind them, something they saw in their own eyes, an emptiness that couldn’t be explained.

Benvolio blinked, and it was gone, replaced by the usual expression of boredom and contempt for everything around him.

He reached up towards the cabinet, selecting a particular bottle. “I’m not gonna be your friend, but someone I care about cares that you stay alive, so _I_ have to care enough about you to make sure you don’t accidentally kill yourself on painkillers I’m not supposed to have.” He held the bottle out to Ohache. “Here, this is actually acetaminophen.”

Benvolio turned then, turning to walk out of the bathroom. “I suggest trying to drink first. Get used to having something in there again.” He paused, looking back over his shoulder. “And get a haircut. You look like a girl.”

\---

Vash didn’t want to answer the knock on her hotel door, but she forced herself to put her hand on the handle, to push it down, to open the door.

The man on the other side didn’t say anything to her.

She handed him her keys. “I don’t wanna know. Just lemme know when yer done.”

He took them from her, saying nothing. He put the keys in his pocket, and produced a second pair, which he placed in her hands.

“The silver one,” he said.

She shut the door.

She tried to ignore the empty space in the parking lot where her car used to be, preferring to pull her jacket around her face and press the unlock button on the keyring she was given, finding her replacement car easily. The interior was still warm, and she was momentarily grateful. It was still snowing, and it was starting to finally stick, a thin layer of white building up on the edges of roofs. It would have been picturesque if she hadn’t just given the keys to the only connection she had to her previous life to a complete stranger, never to be seen again.

The silver hatchback didn’t drive quite like the Mustang, but it didn’t matter anymore. She wasn’t going to be getting involved in any more car chases. It drove smoothly and comfortably, and the sound system was acceptable. There was a voice activated navigation system, and a backup camera. It was nice.

She made a face. _I never thought I’d care more about miles per gallon than horsepower. Thank god I’m just driving this to the airport._

The highway was empty, the entire state of Texas unable to comprehend snow as a concept and preferring instead to stay home. She wasn’t complaining. The radio was playing hits from the 90s, the windshield wipers harmonizing with the soothing sounds of vintage hip hop (but not the sound of an engine.)

It took an hour to reach DFW.

\---

“Ben,” Ohache said, padding into the kitchen on ghost’s feet.

Benvolio started so hard he nearly fell out of the chair he’d been sitting in, picking idly at the lunch Yorrick had left for him. “Jesus fucking Christ, Red!”

Ohache may have been giving him a smug half-smile, but it was gone by the time he realized it was there, replaced by the exhaustion that dominated their features.

They stood there, staring awkwardly at Benvolio’s socks, trying not to breathe.

“What do you want?” He said, irritated.

“I need a haircut,” they mumbled quietly.

“Yes, desperately, I know. Why are you telling _me_ about it?”

“I need someone to cut it.”

“Yeah?”

Ohache frowned. “Toby…I love him, but the first time I cut my hair short I let him do it, and he did such an awful job I had to wear a hat for a month until it grew out enough that an actual barber could fix it.”

Benvolio closed his eyes, trying to pull up at least one molecule of patience from within himself. “ _And?_ ”

“I can’t leave the house and it’s…it’s just you and Toby here and he’s not home and I don’t trust him with clippers anyway, so I-“

“So do it yourself.”

“I don’t have any clippers or scissors or-“ They were trembling.

Benvolio stares at them for a moment before sighing deeply, slapping his knees with both hands and hauling himself out of the chair. “I have some somewhere.”

It was this or pick at this sandwich for another hour, and the smell of shampoo was less likely to turn his stomach.

Benvolio pulled the rolling desk chair from its spot in the corner of his bedroom and sent it into the bathroom, then fished a towel out of a cabinet and tossed it at Ohache’s terrified face.

“Sink,” Benvolio instructed, pointing at it. “All of it.”

Ohache’s eyes dilated, even in this blindingly white bathroom.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Ash, I’m not going to drown you.” He held out his hands and walked backwards towards the door. “Look, I’ll even leave if it makes you feel better. Just stick your head in the fucking water.”

Ohache turned the tap on with shaking hands, but only after the door had shut behind him.

They didn’t bother to wait for it to heat up, gritting their teeth through the chill that soaked through to their scalp, raising goosebumps on their arms as they ran their fingers through their hair. Some water went up their noise and they choked, coughing silently with their hands over their mouth. They made sure they’d blinked the tears from their eyes before they called him back in, their hair more wet than he’d asked for, but he’d take what they gave him.

“I’m done,” they announced, sitting in the chair, draping the towel over their shoulders.

“Did you get the back good?” Benvolio asked as he swung the door open again, presumably standing just outside, hand on the knob.

“Yes, I made-“ Ohache started, words hanging as they looked up.

Benvolio had been wearing sleeves when they’d come up here, somewhere between wrist and quarter length, bunched up just below his elbows. Now he was wearing a tank top, and Ohache was realizing they’d never seen this much of his skin, even in the time they’d been staying in his penthouse. They weren’t really sure what they’d expected to see underneath the designer suits and leather jackets, but what was undoubtedly thousands of dollars of intricate tattoos was not it.

They started at his shoulders, nearly solid black with intricate white lines drawing geometric shapes over one bicep and what appeared to be an abstraction of waves on the other, his left elbow sporting some kind of mandala design that looked fresher than the rest. Ohache’s eyes followed the lines up to his chest, where the hint of something serpentine peeked out from beneath the fabric of his tank top.

“Do you mind?” Benvolio growled, dropping into a squat to rummage around in the cabinet underneath the sink.

Ohache jumped, their eyes flicking from his face to the floor, trying not to look at him at all. “Sorry. Never knew you had ink.”

He made a triumphant noise, pulling a black plastic case from the cabinet. “Nice, aren’t they?”

“Your artist does good line work.”

“She should, for what I pay her.” He laid the case on the counter and flipped it open, producing an expensive-looking set of clippers and a pair of scissors. “How do you want it?”

They’re looking at his back, and there’s the outline of something creeping up the back of his neck and peeking out over his shoulder blades. “Uh, I guess just how it usually was?”

He snapped a guard onto the blade of the clippers and spun Ohache to face the wall. “I’m not a barber, so don’t get mad when it looks like shit, okay?”

Ohache doesn’t realize they haven’t been breathing until the blade guard touches their skin at the back of their neck, and the shudder pushes it out of them.

They sit in the chair and say nothing, listening to the buzz that fills the room. It starts to resonate with the buzz in their head, and Ohache has to get it out before it starts eating them from the inside, pushing up through their skin.

“Did it hurt?” They ask, and regret it immediately when Benvolio laughs.

“Yeah it fucking hurt. That’s the point.”

“The point?”

“Well, you don’t get a tattoo because it feels good, yeah?”

“Most people get tattoos because it’s art,” Ohache said.

The clippers click off, and the room is so silent it’s painful. They can feel Benvolio behind them, combing the longer hair on the top of their head and shearing off the ends with the scissors.

His voice is low when he speaks. “It’s like…there’s something inside I can’t get out, and the needle makes it go away for a little while.”

“Is that what’s replaced the methadone?”

They can feel Benvolio stiffen behind them. “Toby doesn’t get mad when I come back with new tattoos.”

Ohache’s thumbs brush over the fabric of their jeans, feeling the ghosts of the scars on their knees. It felt so long ago that they would play with fire to feel it burn, watching their skin blister and wondering why it never hurt until later. They looked down, at the lines on their hands, and they remembered how they’d only felt the razor wire until they were back in Vash’s car.

“So,” Benvolio said, all traces of that brief moment of vulnerability gone from his voice. “I’m curious. How exactly did you get yourself thrown in prison for three months?”

Ohache felt the hair prickle on their neck. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Benvolio raked the comb through their hair a little too harshly. “Why? You’ve got nothing else to do ‘til I’m done. The news said you shot a cop, that true?”

They wished it wasn’t, but mumbled a confirmation anyway.

“Shit, _I_ ain’t even shot a cop yet. Congrats. You’re rolling with the big boys now.”

“I didn’t exactly want to,” Ohache mumbled.

“So why did you?”

They didn’t answer.

“Were they going after her, or you?”

Ohache was digging their nails into their thighs.

Benvolio set the scissors down with a loud click and picked the clippers back up. “Have you called her yet?”

The sound of the buzzers drowned out their lack of response.

“Why on earth would you throw your life away for someone and then not even stay in touch when you get out?” He continued

Ohache’s eyes burned. “She didn’t call me, why should I call her?”

Benvolio gave a sarcastic bark. “This is the same bitch you told me to eat shit and die for like six months ago? Damn, the breakup must’ve _sucked_.”

“I thought I wanted it, but she just…” Their hands tightened into fists in their lap. “There was so much shit that she didn’t even bother to even acknowledge or do anything about. She just got drunk and pretended none of it ever happened and left me to fucking rot in it by myself.” 

They sighed. “I didn’t realize any of it until she wasn’t around to be horrible for me anymore.”

“Poor baby,” Benvolio said, mockingly. “I’m sure _you_ had nothing to do with it.”

“What?”

The buzzers clicked off again, and Ohache felt Benvolio comb through their hair again before making an “eh” sound and setting his tools aside.

“Shower’s all yours, kid. I’ll clean up when you’re done. “ And then he left.

Ohache sat, stewing in their thoughts, staring at the white tile wall of Benvolio’s bathroom. They spun around in the chair, tossing the towel off of their shoulders and onto the floor, little wisps of hair scattering around them.

They looked into the mirror and saw themselves staring back. Their hair was their natural auburn, not bright red, and they were down ten pounds or so, but it was still them. Same eyes, same pale skin. Same undercut.

They looked exactly like they had before-

Before.

They didn’t realize they were crying until their vision blurred the face in the mirror, and it didn’t look like them anymore. Something – they didn’t know what to call the emotion – burned under their skin, itched like the shorn hairs on the back of their neck, in their ears. For a second, just a second, they were back in a concrete room with windows too high up to see through.

 _I’m sure you had nothing to do with it,_ Benvolio’s voice echoed through their mind. Poor baby. Poor, poor baby, always the victim. Do you not ever think that maybe you are half of the reason you two were so bad for each other?

The clippers still sat on the countertop, the guard left on. Benvolio had done a decent enough job on their hair, but it looked wrong, now, like if they kept staring at themselves the mirror would turn into the window they’d fired a bullet through and effectively ended their life. They picked them up, turned them on, and sheared off the rest of their hair.

The buzzing was still there, under their skin, but it was less urgent now. They stared up into the mirror again, their hair more close-cropped than it’d ever been. There was nothing to hide behind now, no bangs flipped perfectly over one eye. Just Ohache, their gaunt cheeks, and the dark circles under their eyes. It didn’t feel right, but it felt better.

They scooped up all the hair from the sink with their hands, shuffling around for a moment in an attempt to find a trash can, eventually just dumping the little pile with the rest on the floor.

\---

“I can’t believe you let him cut your hair.” Yorrick opened a soda, flopping down on the couch next to Ohache.

“You spent like three hours at the pharmacy,” they replied, taking the soda from him and taking a sip. They knew it would make them feel sick, but the way Yorrick was looking at them made it worth it. “It needed cutting and you weren’t here.” They looked up at Yorrick. “Besides, you have a mullet now.”

Yorrick instinctively clapped a hand to the back of his neck, realizing that his hair was touching the collar of his shirt. “I’ve had a long few months.”

“Same.”

Yorrick ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it away from his face into a small ponytail. “I kinda like it though. I could put it up, be trendy.”

Ohache took another sip of the coke before making a face and handing it back to Yorrick. “You’ll have to buy a cardigan.”

“I already have four.”

“Oh, right, I forgot you’re gay.”

Yorrick noticed they were smiling. It was small, but it was there.

It’d been a long time.

He picked up the TV remote, queuing up a movie that was only rated two stars. “I don’t know if I’m going to make it through this, it look pretty terrible.”

Ohache crossed their arms. “It may have a shitty Netflix rating, but it happens to be a pinnacle of cinematic excellence.”

“Oh? How do you know?”

“I watched it with Le-“ they paused, their voice wavering. “I’ve seen it before.”

“Okay, but is the cat a benevolent ghost or a poltergeist?”

Yorrick was relieved to see Ohache relax, the tension dissipating almost immediately.

They narrowed their eyes, smiling. “I’m not spoiling _anything_.”

Yorrick was beginning to think that he may have needed to open the liquor cabinet to finish this movie at the half hour mark. It had taken about that long for the cat to show up, and it didn’t even get near enough screen time to distract from the terrible plot.

But it was nostalgic, the two of them sitting on the couch riffing on bad movies, Ohache stealing pizza rolls from his plate, curled up with a blanket, knees to their chin.

Yorrick pushed his hair away from his face, leaning his head against the back of the couch. “Please tell me they aren’t gonna fuck in the barn,” he pleaded with Ohache.

Ohache opened their mouth to reply, but Benvolio pushed the door open then, distracting them.

“Yo, Tob. You keeping an eye on the police reporters?”

“No, why?”  
“Might wanna check it out. Something… _interesting’s_ come up.”

Yorrick fished his phone out of his pocket

Ohache paused the movie. “What? What’s happening?”

Benvolio sneered. “On one hand she did us a favour, but on the other, I’m surprised she’d throw herself under the bus like that.”

Yorrick ignored Benvolio, dialing a number on his phone. “If you don’t pick up I swear to god,” he mumbled. It went to voicemail. He dialed again and got the same result.

Yorrick pressed the phone to his face, trying to calm himself down. “God dammit. God _dammit_ , that better not mean what I think it does.”

“You can’t save everyone, Toby.” Benvolio’s voice was almost tender.

“What is going on?” Ohache’s voice was high pitched. “Who are we talking about?”

“Your girlfriend,” Benvolio started, then reconsidered. “Ex-girlfriend?”

“We weren’t dating,” Ohache mumbled.

“Whatever, your ex-roommate.”

Ohache realized they were scared. “What…happened to her?”

Yorrick tossed his phone to them wordlessly. They didn’t really want to look at the all-caps blurb, its two sentence summary of a black Mustang that wrapped itself around a tree and caught fire outside of McKinney, Texas only a few hours before.

Two sentences.

“The Net pinged me on it. It’s her license plate,” Benvolio said, his voice calm like only his could be. “No mention of finding a driver, though, but let’s be real here. Nobody’s walking out of that mess alive.”

“God dammit,” Yorrick muttered, leaning his head back against the couch. “I might have to take you up on that scotch.”

Benvolio left wordlessly.

Ohache’s stomach felt like they were in a plane falling out of the sky, but somehow they felt calm. Calmer than they would’ve been a few days ago. Calmer than they should be. The medicine must be working.

“You okay?” Yorrick ask them, meeting their eyes.

“Dunno.” The calmness was unsettling.

Yorrick looked at the TV, forcing a laugh. “How about you just tell me how this ends?”

“The cat saves everyone from the fire and the shelter is saved. I think someone gets arrested.”

Yorrick nodded. “It’s a family movie.”

Ohache was quiet for a moment. “Do you know why didn’t she come visit me?”

Yorrick sighed. “She panicked. Then felt like it was too late to come back.” His eyes lost focus, staring through the wall. “She told me she was gonna leave. That’s why she gave me the cats. I thought she meant the country not…” he didn’t finish. “I should have known better than to let her be alone after...”

Ohache felt sick, their stomach lurching again into their throat. “After I told her to leave.”

“It’s not your fault, Ash. You didn’t know.”

They didn’t know if they felt guilty or angry, or both. They shouldn’t feel sorry for her. She was the one who ran away, she didn’t come back for them, she didn’t care. 

No, they were angry. “Why didn’t she come back? Why did she leave me in there?” They clenched their fists together, feeling their nails in their palms. “Why did she never fucking care about me?”

“She did, Ash.”

“Could’ve fooled me. It feels like ever since May she’s been trying to destroy my life. She kept…doing stuff, not thinking about how it would affect other people. Like… she _shot Ben_. With my gun. While my hand was on it. And she was _disappointed_ she missed. She didn’t understand why that was a huge fucking problem.”

“Did you actually _tell_ her?”

Ohache opened their mouth to argue, but the point Yorrick was trying to make suddenly clicked in their mind. “No. I never did. I never told her anything. I…I was too scared.”

“Scared of what?”

Their eyes burned. “That she wouldn’t want me. That I was too crazy for her to want to stay with. That I wasn’t worth it.”

“Did she ever actually make you feel like that?”

All Ohache could remember was her holding back their hair the night they stole the direwolf, and they had been so horrible that night. “No. No, she…she always tried to make me feel better, I think.” Tears fell hot down their face. “And I let my head convince me she didn’t. And now I've fucked it all up.”

Yorrick let them fall into him, holding them close. He looked up at the ceiling, studying the pattern in the drywall, trying to be the rock they needed, and probably failing.

Yorrick made his way as quietly as possibly up the stairs, his feet sliding against the edges. He was exhausted, and all he wanted was to collapse into Benvolio’s bed and sleep for an eternity.

When he pushed the door open, Benvolio looked up from the book he was reading, the duvet draped over his propped-up knees.

“To what do I owe this honour?” Benvolio asked dryly.

Yorrick felt the last of his strength drain. “Ben…”

Benvolio closed his book, setting it on the night stand. “I’d almost forgotten that I had a boyfriend and not just a bodyguard.”

Benvolio’s face didn’t have much of an expression, but Yorrick knew him well enough to see what was underneath. When was the last time they’d really talked? Yorrick couldn’t remember.

Yorrick didn’t bother getting undressed, just dropped himself on top of the duvet. “I’m sorry, Ben. It's been a lot." He rolled over, pressing his face into Benvolio’s side. “I’m exhausted.”

Benvolio knew Yorrick hadn’t been taking care of himself like he was usually so good about doing. His face looked older than it ever had; for fuck’s sake he had lines behind his eyes and he was only barely twenty-three.

Yorrick’s voice was muffled, and Benvolio felt more than heard Yorrick speaking against him. “You’re still the most important, you know.”

\---

Vash could barely hear in the overbearingly loud airport lobby. How were there possibly this many people trying to catch a flight this late at night? Fucking Texas.

She was sitting on a bench next to an exhausted-looking young mother trying to control her two screaming children, attempting to decide where she wanted to go. She had mused with going to South America, but the more she thought about it, the more she felt like the language barrier may become a problem. Europe then? Anywhere in the United Kingdom was guaranteed to be absolutely horrible this time of year. Italy then, or France.

Ohache would have hated France.

She pushed it down. It was done.

Her head hurt, the never-ending throbbing only exacerbated by the unruly child to her right. She flashed a sympathetic look at the mother before making her hasty exit to somewhere with more wall outlets and less noise. She should be getting her notification soon, and she could finally leave.

The floor was hard and the wall behind her was cold and gray, but it was all she had now, and she relished her last taste of this place before she ended up on the other side of the world, looking up at unfamiliar stars.

Vash sat there for an hour, watching the people go by. Some in suits, some in pajamas, some radiant, excited to go on an adventure, many of them tired, with dark circles under their eyes, dragging their feet. Couples, hand in hand, eyes never leaving one another.

She caught a glimpse of red hair, a teenager, anxiously looking over their tickets with their friend, their shoulders pressed together, the hair the right colour, but the wrong face, and she felt sick.

Her fingers automatically reached into her back pocket, pulling out her phone, trying to distract her mind. Sure enough, there was the confirmation that she was free. She could finally leave and forget this all happened.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the gray speckled wall. At least it was over with. By now the police will have found her car in whatever shape it’s in, with enough it for them to know it belongs to Alexis Thibideaux, but nobody will know who that is until they find the burned-out husk of her house and draw the line with the address Ohache’s parents will have given them. They’ll conclude that they’ve burned two birds with one stone; the neighbours will say it was such a shock; they were always so quiet. Strange, but quiet. Never a bother, so odd to think they were _like that_. It’ll ripple through Breaux Bridge and down south to Vash’s family, and they will say that they saw it coming. Nobody would mourn her.

Knives drove through her chest as Vash thought about Ohache’s family, sitting on the couch in their little house in Chicago, hands clasped tightly, as some police officer breaks their hearts once again. _I’m sorry,_ she thought. _I’m sorry for everything._

She bought her ticket with an ID that bore a name different than she was born with, and she, for the first time in her life, walked under the metal detector without the bite of anxiety in her stomach, pulling her shoes back on with no doubts they’ll let her on the plane.

She bought a sandwich at a shop in the terminal, forcing herself to eat it, even though she had no appetite, watching the people go by.

She should tell him she was leaving, at least. They’d probably gotten the ping from the Net already, but Yorrick had been helpful, in any case. Maybe Ohache was worried about her. She doubted it.

She pulled up the contact list on her burner phone, thankful she’d had the foresight to save his number before she smashed her old cell. _It’s Alexis._ _Heading to Europe. Thanks for the haircut._

The intercom announced boarding for her flight. She tossed the rest of her sandwich into the trash and gathered up her carry-on bag and phone, dragging herself out of the seat and towards the line forming at the gate.

This was it. No turning back.


	20. Chapter Twenty

_January_

Ohache had been holding Yorrick’s phone when he got the message. They were playing a game on it, something to pass the time while they waited for Yorrick to finish dinner, which they realized they were really looking forward to eating, finally. They were on a crazy win streak that had definitely set a new high score. They were totally in their element.

Then, they froze, the game racking up missed hits, their head full of static.

They must have made some kind of noise, because suddenly Yorrick was there, standing behind the couch. “You alright?”

“You got a text,” they said, handing him the phone, eyes still locked in place.

Ohache heard Yorrick inhale. “Oh.”

The silence hung in the room like snow melting from a roof, ready to collapse and smother them all.

“She’s not dead,” Ohache finally said, softly.

“Yeah.”

“And she’s going overseas.”

“Yeah.”

“And she never even came see me.”

Yorrick closed his eyes. “You told her to leave.”

He could hear the tears in their voice. “She didn’t…she didn’t even help… she just showed up and wanted me to come back with her, and I was so fucked up, I…”

“She did help, Ash,” Yorrick said softly. “She drove the transport bus.”

Ohache stared up at him. “Really?”

“You didn’t think it was weird she cut your chains off and hauled you to our car?”

“I don’t…I didn’t…her voice…”

“Anyone can fake an accent, even her.”

They were shell-shocked. The memory of the ride played through their head, fuzzy at best and clouded by panic, but clear enough to remember. The sound of her voice, forced into an unnatural accent, telling the security officer that they were-

That _they_ were staying on the bus.

"S...she used my pronouns. I fuckin'....She was there the whole time. And I…” Their voice broke again. “And I told her to fuck off. She was there the whole time and like a stupid, angry, ungrateful…”

They spun in their seat, reaching up for the phone in Yorrick’s hands like a child. “Give me the phone.”

He did. “What are you-“  
Ohache was already dialing the number, mumbling a soft “please pick up, please pick up,” as it rang.

They made a choking sound as the call connected and Vash’s voice sounded through the speaker. “Yeah?”

“Lex,” Ohache breathed.

There was a horrifying second of silence. “Ash?”

“Lex, please, I-“

They heard the sound of an intercom announcement in the background.

“Ash, I gotta go, my plane boutta star boarding-“

“Please, Lex,” they sobbed. "I need to talk to you."

The announcement continued. _Now boarding Zone 2-_

“Listen,” Vash said, the strain in her voice audible. “I got a layover in Atlanta. I’ll call ya, okay?”

“Okay. Okay.” They were shaking.

Vash hung up.

She didn’t call in Atlanta. Instead, she coughed up the cancellation fee and changed her flight from Charles de Gaulle to Indianapolis and tried to tell herself she wanted it to be a surprise, not that she wasn’t ready to hear their voice again without mental preparation.

She sat in her terminal, heart pounding a techno beat in her chest. She felt nauseated, on edge, unable to focus on anything except the constant rehearsal of conversation in her mind, until she’d exhausted every single thread she could think of, and none of them ended well.

She didn’t sleep on the flight, either. The loop continued turning, over, and over, and over, again and again, never changing. Ohache angry, biting like they had been in the parking lot, sobbing like on the phone, quiet and seething like in the car after she’d tried to solve one of their problems for good. It always ended in them walking away just as broken as they’d been when they started.

But she hailed a cab anyway outside of the airport, everything she owned in a suitcase by her side.

It took little more than a phone call to find the address of the hotel Benvolio lived on top of. Her anxiety followed her into the lobby, to the security desk where the guard raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing.

“Who’re you here to see?” He asked, taking stock of Vash’s appearance. She guessed maybe that “hasn’t done laundry in a week” wasn’t the typical look he saw coming in and out of here.

“Mercutio,” she said.

The eyebrow raised higher. “Alright, lemme call him." The call was short, and curt. “He’ll be down in a moment, ma’am.”

The elevator had to have flown down from the top floor with how quickly it dinged open, revealing a very irritated Benvolio inside.

“I swear to god, Stacey, if I find out how you got my address, I will-“ He stopped in his tracks when he finally saw who was waiting for him. “Are you _fucking_ shitting me right now. What are you doing here? I thought you died.”

“Surprise, I’m still alive,” Vash said flatly.

“Did you and Toby plan this shit? It’s _my_ fucking house, you know, he can’t just go around inviting people over-“

She really just wanted to get this over with. “Can I just get the keycard or whatever it is y’all have to get in the fuckin’ elevator?”

Benvolio laughed. “Seriously? _Hell_ no I’m not letting you in. If you’re gonna assassinate me, you can do it right here in front of God and everyone.”

“I ain’t here to shoot you. I’m here to see Ash.”

“Do they know? ‘Cause last I heard they were pretty adamant you stay far away from them from now on.”

She sighed, closing her eyes. “Just let me up, Benvolio, please.”

He sniggered, tossing her the card. “God, I wish I didn’t have some actually super important shit to take care of, ‘cause I would _love_ to see the look on their face when you walk out of that elevator wanting to kiss and make up.”

The elevator was walled with wood and carpeted in red, and went at what felt like the speed of sound. The rock in Vash’s stomach sunk deeper and deeper, defying gravity as they shot closer and closer to their destination.

She wasn’t ready when the door slid open again, blinding her with bright white lights reflecting off of bright white walls.

“That was fast,” came Yorrick’s voice from somewhere out of view, footsteps announcing his approach. “Did something...come…up…”

Vash didn’t look him in the eye.

His voice was low. “You were supposed to call when you got to Atlanta.”

“Changed my mind.”

“You really should have called,” Yorrick growled quietly, standing over Vash as menacingly as possible while wearing a Nirvana T-shirt and sweat pants. “You’re putting everyone on the spot by being here and it’s only going to end with Ash being forced to make decisions they neither need to be making nor are really capable of making. It’s _too soon_.”

“I jus’ wanted to actually…talk for once in my fuckin’ life, Yorrick. An’ it felt better to do it in person. ‘Sides, they called _me_.”

“Yeah, and they really fuckin’ shouldn’t have, but I wasn’t able to stop them in time. Alexis, they’re _not stable yet_ , you can’t be here-“

She looked up at him with dark-rimmed eyes. “Then throw me off the fuckin’ balcony, what do I care. It’ll solve both our problems.”

He froze. Once again he saw a face that wasn’t hers, a voice in the darkness that tore him open top to bottom. A pep talk wasn't enough to save her, and he knew it. But neither was this.

Behind him, a door opened and closed. Vash saw him visibly stiffen.

“Yo, Tob, what’s the address here so I can order pizza?”

She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to see them walk around the corner into the living area, not looking up from the phone in their hands.

They were thin. So thin, and pale, their clothes hung off of their shoulders and bunched around their waist where they’d secured them with a belt. Their hair was practically nonexistent, a slightly grown out buzz cut, darker than she’d ever seen. Their dark circles weren’t as deep as she thought they’d be when they looked up.

“Hello, you gonna answer-“

They stopped mid-stride, eyes locked on hers. Towering over her, Yorrick looked like he was about to start hitting someone, and she was the only other person in the room.

Ohache took a step back.

And then a step forward.

And then another, and another, until they were standing in front of her, staring at her as though she were a ghost that may disappear if they came too close.

“Hey, Ash,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

“I thought you were going to Europe.”

“Somethin’ more important came up.”

It was like watching a hurricane destroy a seawall, every ounce of bottled-up emotion flying across Ohache’s face and then out of it in huge, heaving sobs that wracked their skinny shoulders, head turned down, fists balled at their sides.

She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to pull them into her and hold them until they stopped, she wanted to turn around and leave, she wanted to go back in time and never come here in the first place. Instead she stood rooted to the spot, unable to do anything except stare at Ohache’s feet in front of her.

“I thought…” they said, barely able to catch their breath. “I…”

They didn’t finish. They dropped their head into her shoulder, wrapping shaking arms around her, grabbing fistfuls of her shirt.

Their legs gave out and they pulled her to the floor where they sat for what felt like hours, clinging to one another like they were drowning in an ocean of shit they should have said years and years ago.

“You kept my scarf,” Ohache said, still not quite having caught their breath. They were sitting on Yorrick’s couch, the apartment door shut, the TV playing a movie neither of them were watching, just to fill the quiet in the room. The cats occupied a lap each, gently kneading holes into their jeans.

“I didn’t have one,” she said, looking up at the scarf in question, now draped over the back of a chair. “An’ I wanted somethin’ to remember ya by if I never saw ya again.”

“Did you really burn the house down?”

“I needed to get rid of everythin’ I could. I tried to pack up some of your stuff, but I can only fit so much in my car. I pretty much jus’ got the few changes of clothes Toby's got an’ yer coyote head.”

“All your taxidermy…your grandma’s masks…”

“None of it was worth dyin’ over.”

“Your car…”

She grimaced. “I don’t wanna think about it.”

They were quiet. The cats purred in their laps, the TV played a commercial for a Valentine’s Day furniture sale.

“I’m sorry,” Ohache said finally. “For…that night.”

She said nothing.

“I spent a lot of time alone, making myself believe that you were the enemy because you never came see me, and I didn’t know you were actually there helping Ben and Toby get me out. I was…fucked up. Like, bad fucked up. I’ve got all these mental issues and if I don’t have the right meds…” They mimed an explosion around their head. “It’s bad.”

“It’s fine. It makes ya do shit ya don’t mean, I get it.”

“It’s really _not_ fine. It’s not an excuse to be mean and say shit I know is gonna hurt you.” They stared at the floor. “I thought…I thought you died, and I didn’t get the chance to say I was

sorry. That I fucked up and wanted to fix it.”

It surprised them, how easily the words came and went, after so long keeping them inside. “I missed you.”

“Listen, this is a penthouse, not a fucking bed and breakfast,” Benvolio bitched, a cup of coffee in one hand and a steaming homemade biscuit in the other. “If you two stay here any longer I’m charging you rent.”

Vash gave him the finger, too distracted with smothering her helping of breakfast in syrup to dignify him with a scathing remark.

Benvolio attempted to ignite her with his eyes, but she didn’t seem to want to look at him, so he spun on his heels with a huff and walked out into the living room to pick at his food alone.

“He’s gotta point, though,” Vash said, stuffing one entire half of the pastry into her mouth. “As good a cook Yorrick is, I ain’t about to move in with the Midwest’s biggest douchebag, too.”

“I heard that, and fuck you,” Benvolio barked from the other room.

Ohache had been tearing their biscuit into more manageable chunks in the seat next to her. Their hands slowed ever so slightly, their brows knitting just a tiny bit closer.

Vash noticed. Of course she did. “Y’ain’t gotta come with me. If yer happy here there ain’t no reason to leave. I'm jus' here 'cause ya wanted to talk, that’s it.”

They stopped trying to eat. “Where were you going, the other day?”

“Paris. Figger it’d be easier somewhere I already know how to talk to people.”

The crease in their forehead deepened, and they didn’t look twenty anymore.

They were quiet for a long while, picking idly at their food, not eating any of it.

` "Did you give Toby my clothes?"

Vash hummed a confirmation around her breakfast. "And the coyote head."

"Is...that it?"

"Like I said, I only had so much room. Couldn't get any o' yer other bones or anythin', sorry."

They put their hands in their lap. "It's...it's fine. For real." They laughed weakly. "That dire wolf gave me nightmares anyway."

"I know. My house had thin walls."

Ohache stared at their hands. "I'm sorry I never told you. I didn't want you to think I was crazy."

She snorted. "That'd be the pot callin' the kettle black, wouldn't it?"

"People actually say that?"

"Old people do," she said. "Listen, if I thought ya were crazy for havin' PTSD for killin' someone an' havin' anxiety I'd hafta check myself in the psych ward, too."

"I didn't think you were scared of anything."

Vash didn't look at them. "I was scared of losin' you."

Ohache cornered Yorrick while Vash was out picking up lunch, pulling him aside, eyes darting around to make sure Benvolio wasn’t creeping around some corner.

“He’s upstairs,” Yorrick said, giving them an unimpressed face. “I just saw him up there on his computer doing work stuff.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. He loves sneaking up behind you like a fucking ghost,” they whispered, checking around one more corner before coming back, satisfied.

They’d been quiet all day and Yorrick knew something was up. Neither Ohache nor Vash had said much to one another, preferring to exist silently in one another’s space instead, Ohache bearing a remarkable resemblance to a gun-shy puppy, wanting desperately to be comfortable next to its companion but terrified of the potential consequences. Sitting close, but not too close. Never quite relaxing, as though in seconds she would get up and leave again.

The anxiety hung thick around the two of them in a cloud of words that needed to be said but neither of them were quite ready to break the silence.

So this is what it looks like from the outside, Yorrick thought.

Ohache looked like they were about to tell Yorrick his mom had died.

“Vash is leaving.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“I…want to go with her.”

“Okay.”

Yorrick could see the tension release from their body. “You…aren’t mad?”

“Why would I be mad? You wanna go with her, then go with her.”

“But I’ll be like…in Paris, probably. I might never see you again.”

Yorrick sighed, setting one huge hand on Ohache’s bony shoulder. “I would rather you be happy in Paris than miserable on my couch.”

“But what if I’m not? What if I get there and I’m miserable on _her_ couch instead?”

“Then I’ll come get you.”

“But what if-“

“Do you say you want to go with her because you really do, or because you feel guilty about her coming all the way here, and you don’t want to disappoint her?”

Tears glittered in their eyes. “Both.”

“You can’t stay with her because you’re guilty, you know. It’s not fair to either of you. It’ll just fuck both of you up and then all you’ve done is waste each other’s time, trust me.”

They closed their eyes, taking a deep breath through their nose. “I miss…when we were together. Back at the house, even though I was scared, it was...better. Than I’ve been in a long time. And I don’t wanna lose that.”

They were shaking. “But I’m scared. What if this all happens all over again but this time I don’t have connections or people that…” They paused. “Care about me.”

Yorrick squeezed their shoulder. “If anything happens, if you aren’t happy, I’ll come get you, I swear. If she tries to stop me, I’ll drop her off the top of the Eiffel Tower.” He smiled, but he couldn’t keep it from being a little sad. “If you wanna go, go.”

“I haven’t told her yet. I don’t even know if she’s even like, okay with the idea or anything. She just talked about herself when she mentioned leaving.”

Yorrick patted them. “That’s probably step one. Promise me you'll actually talk to her from now on, okay?”

"I'm already on it."

They seemed satisfied, at least for now, their face not quite red enough yet for it to be obvious they’d cried. They even managed to eke out a smile, and Yorrick felt the satisfaction of another job well done bubble up in his chest.

They turned to leave, but whipped back around to him almost immediately, eyes wide.

“Wait! I need a new identity and stuff! I can’t just go to the airport and use my real name, they'll arrest me! I don’t even have an ID card anymore, or a passport!”

“We can get that in like, two days. I’m pretty sure Ben keeps that paperwork in his desk, we use it so often.”

“But…won’t they eventually come to you, looking for me? Even if Ben is like, a ‘big deal,’ they might corner you when you’re shopping or something because we grew up together and they'll know that 'cause they'll have talked to my parents and shit.”

“Easy,” came Benvolio’s voice from behind them, footsteps silent as a cat. “We kill you.”

Ohache nearly jumped out of their skin, backing several steps away. “See! Like that! He keeps doing that!”

Benvolio grinned a jackal’s smile. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Red. Make sure you don’t slack off now that you’re a civvie.”

They stared at him like he was a snake about to strike. “What did you mean by ‘kill me’?”

Benvolio held out his left hand, pointing his index and middle finger at Ohache, miming a gun. He flicked his wrist upwards, puffing out his cheeks with a “pow” sound.

Yorrick glared at him. “Ben, stop.”

He cackled. “Nah, for real though. The best way to get the cops off both your tail and mine is for you to die.” He paused a moment to take in Ohache’s horrified face. “Not _actually_ die, unless that’s on your bucket list for this year. I mean _on paper_.”

“Like…fake my death.”

Benvolio snapped his fingers. “Bingo. We kill you off, forge you some paperwork, and you’re in Paris by the weekend. Easy.”

Ohache looked like they might cry again.

He sighed, lacing his fingers together in front of him, suddenly serious. “Look. Like it or not, it’s the most effective way to make you disappear and keep the feds off our ass. If I do it myself and frame it like an internal thing, they're likely to give up on the investigation entirely. You get off scot free, I'm not worried about getting my office raided, and the police can sleep easy knowing a wanted criminal is no longer on the loose. Win-win.”

He was speaking in a completely sincere tone, with something like compassion in his eyes, and the sight of Benvolio standing in front of them with no venom in his presence was more terrifying than any of the times he’d threatened them with violence. A full-body shudder shook Ohache from tip to toes.

“Do you wanna be shot, have a fatal car accident…thrown in an empty swimming pool and set on fire? Your pick, kid. The death you've always dreamed of is now at your fingertips.”

Ohache squeezed their eyes shut. “I don’t want to know.”

“Immolation it is, then.”

Yorrick’s voice was a bark. “Ben!”

“What? If you’re gonna die, you might as well make it fun to read about in the papers.”

\---

Ohache knocked gently on the door to Yorrick’s bedroom with shaking hands, heart threatening to beat out of their chest and take a few ribs with it.

“Minute,” came Vash’s voice through to door, followed by sounds of her shuffling, presumably pulling on clothes after a long shower.

A wave of steamed air blew in Ohache's face as she swung the door open, a towel over one arm, her hair ruffled.

“Yeah?”

They blinked. “Oh, your hair. I thought it was a wig. Since you’re on the run, and all.”

“Nah.”

“I thought…”

Her face darkened. “It was time for a change.”

She turned away from them, stepping back into the room to toss the towel back onto the hook in the bathroom. “Whatcha want?”

Right. That. Their hands started shaking again. “We need to talk.”

She looked up at them, her face twisted into a grimace.

“Not…not bad talk. I think. Probably.” There was a lump rising in their throat. 

“Don’t say it like that,” she said. “Stresses me out.”

“Sorry. Sorry. It does me, too, I just-“ This was going so incredibly poorly. “This is. What we need to talk about. Talking.”

“Alright,” she said, cautiously.

They squeezed their eyes shut and took a breath. “I want to go to Paris. With you.”

She said nothing, and they didn’t open their eyes. Not being able to see was helping, somehow.

“If you don’t want me to go, I understand, and I know we haven’t really had time to talk about like, anything, and we’ve only been reconciled for like, two days, but I just…I miss _us_ , Lex. And I know it might suck and we’ve got a lot to figure out but I wanna try. Again, I guess. For real, this time.”

The strain was audible in her voice. “Why. Why would ya wanna come with me overseas to a country that speaks a language you ain’t know, an’ never be able to see yer friends ever again.”

“The alternative is to be stuck in this penthouse for the rest of my life, and I would rather shoot myself than spend fifty more years with Ben. But more importantly,” Ohache opened their eyes and gave her a tired, but genuine smile. “I’d never felt more brave than when you were next to me. I don’t want to lose that.”

The sincerity of their words surprised them both. Vash seemed shaken to her core, the pained expression spread across her face deepening. “Ya don’t hafta come with me just ‘cause ya think I’ll be mad if ya didn’t. I ain’t here to make ya feel like ya gotta make a decision or nothin’.“

“I’m being serious! I really – for real – want to go with you.”

“What makes ya think it’s gonna go any different over there than it did here.”

They pointed from themselves to her, and back. “This. Talking. Not letting stuff go when it really can’t be. We're already kinda doing it, right now, and earlier, y'know?"

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Please, Lex. Can we try?”

She looked up at them, features soft in the dim light despite the jut of their cheekbones, short-cropped hair creating a halo around their head. They were trying, harder than they ever had. Offering her a hand of forgiveness that she knew she didn’t deserve.

She focused her gaze somewhere around their collarbone. “Okay.”


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

_February_

Ohache didn’t ask Benvolio how he killed them, just accepted the folder of freshly printed paperwork he tossed at their face. The ink still smelled warm.

“There you go, kid. Shiny new identity, just for you. Don't say I never did anything nice for you.”

Ohache carefully opened the folder, spreading the papers with one hand. A new birth certificate, Social Security card, driver’s license, passport, medical records - all under a name that wasn’t theirs. _Peyton Fontenot_.

“What’s with this last name?” They asked, holding up the driver’s license. “Font-ee-not?”

Benvolio shrugged. “Forgot to ask you what you wanted your surname to be so I just used Alexis’ new one. Figure you two are basically married anyway.”

“I don’t even know how to say this.”

“I’m sure she’ll teach you.”

He draped himself across the arm of the couch that Ohache sat on, elbow propping his head up off the back cushion, grinning his vampire grin. “So, how’s it feel?”

They blinked, looking up at him. “Huh?”

“Being dead. I’ve always wondered. Thought about finding out a few times, but it never quite worked out. You’re the only person I know who’s died and lived to tell about it.”

“Feels...foreign,” they said softly. “It’s not really me, yet, I guess.”

“Didn’t you already change your name once?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t quite as dramatic. And my state ID still had my dead name on it, so it wasn't legal or anything. It’s weird to see a new name on paper.”

They studied the driver’s license, turning it over in their hands. The photo was old, but still clearly them. “You know I never learned to drive, right?”

Benvolio laughed. “No shit? Me either. Between this and the drugs we’re practically the same person, huh.”

Ohache still didn’t particularly like the idea of them being remotely anything like Benvolio.

“Won’t matter anyway; once you get overseas they’ll want you to learn their rules and shit,” he continued. “They drive on the same side of the road in France but everything’s fuckin’ manual.”

They hummed an acknowledgement, attention turning back to the papers. “Won’t it be weird if we have the same last name? Y’know, if we get citizenship or whatever.”

“Like I said, they’ll probably just think you’re married or something. It’s not that weird.”

“Yeah but, what if it’s weird _over there_? What if I can’t get a license in France ‘cause I don’t have a marriage license or something and they don’t believe me when I say we’re not?” Their head was buzzing, and they knew it probably sounded ridiculous, but it didn’t stop the anxiety from fueling their mouth.

“So then actually marry her or something, Jesus, I’m not your fuckin’ therapist.”

Ohache’s voice squeaked. “I can’t marry her! This is Indiana!”

Benvolio groaned. “Do you want me to go remake all your papers so you can be straight, then?”

Their face flushed bright. “No! That’s…I don’t…!”

It would be that easy though, to just change the F to an M. It’s not like they presented feminine at any point in time anyway. But there was something even more foreign about being legally male, the idea of being so completely something they weren’t.

Besides, doctor’s appointments would get super awkward.

“If you really want me to, I can forge you a certificate from Washington or California or something,” Benvolio said, that same uncharacteristically caring tone to his voice that sent the hair on the back of Ohache’s neck prickling. “It’s not hard. I’ve done it before.”

“No…no it’s. Fine.”

Benvolio lifted himself up from the couch, back to Ohache as he stretched. “Suit yourself.”

But now they were thinking about it.

\---

The apartment smelled like coffee when Ohache walked in, their folder pressed into their chest like it was going to save their life. Vash stood in the little kitchenette, lifting one of Yorrick’s mugs to her lips with a grimace. It said “World’s Best Brother.”

“I thought you hated coffee?” Ohache said, locking the door behind them.

“I do,” she replied, setting the cup down and pouring approximately a pound of sugar into it. “Beats bein’ pissy at everyone though.”

Ohache held out the folder. “Ben got me my papers.”

She took another sip, seemingly slightly less disgusted with the flavour. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Guess I’m…not me anymore.”

“Names ain’t what defines ya. You’ll always be you, Ash.” 

She took the folder and flipped it open, glancing at the papers inside. Ohache saw the exact second she found their new surname, her face contorting in a journey from surprise, confusion, concern, then simple anxiety about the implications.

“I forgot I needed a new last name, so Ben just used your new one,” they explained.

She coughed. “I see.”

“I don’t know how to say it.”

“ _Font-no_ ,” Vash said. “Figured I’d go easy…” She paused, eyes flicking to Ohache. “For once in my life.”

They blinked. “You picked that name because it’d be easy for me to say? Specifically?”

She wasn’t looking at them anymore, the mug to her lips again, hiding her face. “It’s a real generic Cajun name. So is Emily, which is why I picked it, too. Musta grown up with sixteen Emilys when I was a kid, an’ prolly half of ‘em were Fonetnots. If they wasn’t Fontenots they was prolly Guillotes. Or Heberts.” She was rambling to avoid the question and Ohache knew it.

“I’m honoured to know you thought of me when deciding your new name even though I told you to fuck off and die.”

She frowned, still pretending to look at their papers. “Wishful thinkin'.”

“And now we're here, aren't we?”

“Yeah.”

She set the folder on the tiny fold-out table that served as Yorrick’s breakfast area, taking another draught to once again hide the expression on her face. But Ohache could see her eyes, and she was looking at them the way she always did – like they were a sand sculpture, and the tide was coming in fast.

Their heart rate was surprisingly calm. “Hey, remember last year, my birthday, at Gino’s?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember when you asked me if I wanted to be partners with you? And I got all flustered because I thought you were asking me out, but you really just meant you wanted to work together?”

Her voice was slightly more suspicious. “…Yeah.”

Their heart was pounding in their chest. "Working together didn’t really work out that well, but maybe…the other thing would?”

Her head snapped up. “ _Excusez-moi?_ ”

Oh, now they were freaking out. “I meant… we’ve been living together for a long time, and we’re gonna move across the world together, and we already have the same last name now-“

“Are ya askin’ me ta fuckin’ marry ya?” She sounded incredulous, which is not the effect they’d anticipated. Shocked, maybe. Surprised. Not her glaring at them like they’d just insulted her mother.

They decided to laugh, because if they didn’t, they might cry. “Should I have gotten on one knee?”

The light was dim but they could see colour rising up her neck. “Ash I’m real flattered, but one, this ain’t a legal state. Second, I’m glad your meds are workin’ out for ya an’ all, but this,” she waved a hand between the two of them. “This ain’t marriage material.”

“Aside from me going batshit crazy in prison-“

“I was gonna leave ya, Ash. That’s…not what ya do when yer in that kinda relationship.”

Their voice was soft. “I _told_ you to leave. I really can't blame you for that.”

She looked like she was going to hit them. “I coulda come back though, put in some effort to show ya I still cared about ya even though ya went crazy. I prolly woulda just gone to Mexico or drove into a wall or somethin’ if Yorrick hadn’t…”

“But you _did_ come back, didn’t you? Isn’t that what really matters?”

“I had to get it kicked outta me.”

“So did I.”

She stared at them, lips a thin line. “I don’t want ya to marry me out of obligation or ‘cause ya think someone’s gonna give ya the side-eye ‘cause we got the same last name. Yer young; ya should have the option of marryin’ for love.”

Ohache shrugged. “I love you.”

She coughed around her coffee again, the colour spilling over into her face, now. “I mean like, romantically, Ash.”

“I don’t _get_ romance. Or sex, actually. Best friends is really as good as it’s gonna get for me. And isn’t that what everyone says anyway? Marry your best friend?”

She wasn’t looking at them anymore, clearly attempting to change states of matter from solid to a gas in a dazzling escape.

"If you're worried about _your_ future dating life-"  
Vash made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh. "That ain't it," she mumbled into her coffee.

“It’s fine if you really don’t want to. Ben just said it as a joke, but then I started thinking about it, and it started sounding kinda nice, I guess. And it’d probably be easier to get citizenship.” They shoved their hands in their pockets, sighing. “Either way, I’m not going anywhere, I promise. So you can stop looking at me like I’m gonna disappear.”

“You got real grown up in prison,” she mumbled.

“I had a lot of time to think about stuff.”

She met their eyes, and they were more resolute than she ever remembered them. “You _really_ wanna fuckin’ marry me, don’t ya?”

They shrugged, grinning. "Maybe it'd be fun."

Benvolio was loitering near the apartment door when they finally stepped out, blinking in the sudden shift from dim lamplight to sunlight streaming through floor to ceiling plate windows. A shit-eating grin spread across his face, his eyes darkening wickedly. “So, when’s the wedding?”  
Vash blushed a deep, blinding red, and slugged him.

\---

Benvolio got them a license from Washington, because Vash refused to have California be written on anything even remotely related to her life. He’d even gotten dressed up for the occasion, shaving his face and throwing a crisp black tuxedo jacket on over his white T-shirt with the words “In Dog Years I’m Dead” printed across the front. It was exceedingly classy. He’d signed his own name in one of the witness spots, taking no small satisfaction at Vash’s face when she’d seen.

Yorrick was slightly less enthusiastic about the decision, requiring several minutes of argument from Ohache and eye-rolling from both Vash and Benvolio before he added his name to the second witness spot. The contrast between his neat, flowing script beneath Benvolio’s harsh scrawl was almost funny.

“My dad’s a notary or something like that in nearly every state,” Benvolio said, folding up the license and sliding it back into the manila envelope. “So it’s all legal.” He grinned in Yorrick’s direction. “He nearly cried when I handed it to him. Thought it was for us ‘til he saw the names.”

It was Yorrick’s turn to turn red.

Benvolio slapped the folder against his thigh dramatically. “Well, it’s done. Congrats you two, don’t make too much noise consummating this later; I ain’t slept in like two days so I plan on getting super high and trying to knock myself out, and if you keep me up I will personally kill you both with my bare hands.”

And with that, he ascended the stairs, the metal heels of his shoes clicking the whole way up.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Ohache asked, eyes lingering where his feet had disappeared moments before.

“Yeah,” Yorrick replied, sighing. “He’ll be fine.”

Vash had the feeling that she was left out of a secret shared by everyone but her. An uncomfortable silence lingered for a few seconds, and she was getting itchy.

She elbowed Ohache in the side. “Hey, where’s my ring?”

Their eyes popped open wide. “Oh my god I forgot a ring. Fuck, fuck, Toby, I can’t drive or leave the house because I’m dead, you gotta go and get her one!”

Vash attempted to backpedal. “Ya really don’t hafta-“

“No wife of mine is going to walk around bare-handed!” They whirled around to face her. “I will find you a twist-tie if I have to!”

Yorrick was thumbing through his wallet. “I’ve got a grand on me, how gaudy do you like your stones, Lex?”

She held out her hand, studying it. “Not very. Prolly jus’ like, a band with some rocks in it or somethin’, no engagement ring.” She gave Ohache a sideways grin. “Since I ain’t actually had an engagement.”

They snorted, puffing out their cheeks. “We _were_ engaged! For like, eight hours! That’s more than enough time to get you a ring!”

Yorrick handed her his phone. “There’s a Tiffany across the street; pick one and give me your size and I’ll go grab it for you. You can pay me back once you get settled.”

She scrolled through the page, eventually settling on a simple white gold band inlaid with diamonds. “I’m a six,” she said.

“And I’m an eight and a half!” Ohache called out after him, huffing as Yorrick simply waved and shut the front door behind him, leaving them in silence.

“I can’t believe I forgot a ring.”

Vash patted their arm. “It’s ok, y’ain’t never been engaged before, I understand.”

“My mom would be so disappointed in me right now,” they said.

In an instant, the air changed. They hadn’t thought about her since…

Since the single time she’d visited them in prison.

And now she’ll be hearing soon that her greatest disappointment was dead. Would she cry? Would she be relieved? That Ohache would no longer be souring the family name? Would she mourn them, or just quietly put away their photos, their belongings, the remnants of a life none of them wanted to remember anymore?

They felt Vash’s hand on their arm again, squeezing this time. “Hey.”

It pulled them back just enough to realize they were crying.

“It’s over, Ash,” she said softly. “Literally a past life.”

They inhaled a shaking breath. “Is this why you never talk to your family?”

“Ain’t nobody in my family worth cryin’ over,” she mumbled. “But it helps.”

Ohache wiped their face and laughed, a weak, sardonic sound. “I understand why you drink so much.”

She frowned. “Yeah well. New me, new me. Find ya a better copin’ mechanism ‘cause da cabinets is dry from now on.”

“Wow, I’m surprised,” Ohache said, and there was no bite to their words.

“Got tired of it makin’ shit more difficult than it needed to be,” she mumbled.

“Like driving with a hangover.”

She looked up at them, her hand still on their arm. Their eyes met, smiles spreading on both their features.

“God this is the most cliché thing I ever fuckin’ did in my life,” she said, dropping her hand. “I need some fuckin’ coffee before I barf.”

\---

“Done playing Reverend Laertes?” Benvolio said, his voice harsh, snapping. His hair was wet but he was fully dressed, leaning off the edge of the bed, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, the pack he’d pulled it from in the other hand.

Yorrick shucked his shirt off and tossed it into the laundry. “Can’t you try and not be nasty to them for one day?”

“Ain’t in my nature.”

Yorrick finished undressing and took a shower, aware of Benvolio watching him from the corner of his eye like a dog in a cage. He still hadn’t lit the cigarette by the time Yorrick returned.

Yorrick took it away from him, pushing it back into the pack and setting it in the top drawer of the bedside table. “I thought you were going to sleep?”

“Can’t.”

“Want me to get you some sleep meds or something? Ash has a whole bottle of melatonin downstairs.”

Benvolio's unblinking gaze was like staring down the barrel of a shotgun, finger on the trigger. For the first time, Yorrick thought he may finally know what it felt like to be on the other side of his desk.

They lay on opposite sides of the bed that night, Benvolio staring out of the window as the sun turned the starless sky gold.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

_February_

Ohache had lost count of how many times they‘d walked through security at Indianapolis airport, but none of those times had ever made their throat tighten up quite like this one. Yorrick had held them in a long, tight hug that nearly winded them and popped at least two vertebrae, his face pressed into their hair as he reminded them for the thousandth time that all they had to do was call. When he dropped them, he turned to Vash, reminding her of the same, eyes harder, but no less emotional.

“The Eiffel Tower, yeah. Got it,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a comforting smile, but really looked more like she was exhausted.

It felt like the day they’d left Chicago to start their new job for the Mercutio cartel, stepping into O’Hare to embark on what they thought was going to be the rest of their life, the air crisp, alive, electric. One hand on their suitcase, the other clutching their boarding pass, that same mix of anxiety and excitement bubbling in their chest. Except this time they weren’t standing in line alone.

The plane was huge and full to the brim, but Yorrick had bought them business-class seats. Ohache flopped into theirs, stretching their feet out in front of them like a contented housecat. On the other side of a low dividing wall, Vash was far less comfortable, her face drawn as the anxiety of flying came nearer and nearer. She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose, steeling herself. It was only nine hours.

She put her headphones on and queued up something on the TV, propping her feet up, trying to get comfortable. Not even the relatively plush, wide chairs and plethora of entertainment options kept her from digging her nails into the arm rest, though.

The plane banked hard to the right as it righted its course, and she didn’t realize she’d been grimacing until she felt fingers slide between hers, warm, and soft except for the band of metal around one finger.

They were smiling at her when she opened her eyes, this kind of stupid, half-cocked look, like a lovestruck child. The hand in hers squeezed, just a little.

She closed her eyes again, relaxing into the cushion, the plane steady around her. It was only nine hours.

\---

It wasn’t like him to sit outside like that. Well, sitting outside wasn’t weird in of itself. They both did that a lot, up here on the billionth floor of this tower, but usually by the time the sun set and the temperature started dropping, he’d come inside. Drop a blanket over Benvolio’s shoulders and drag him to the couch to watch TV or upstairs to warm him up in other ways.

But tonight he was still out there, looking up at the nonexistent stars.

Benvolio sighed and pushed open the sliding glass door. Yep, it was cold as fucking balls out here.

“Yo. You’re gonna freeze to death.”

Slowly, Yorrick blinked, eyes not quite focused as they turned to meet Benvolio’s. “Huh?”

“It’s cold.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Yorrick sighed. “Sorry. It’s been a weird day.”

Benvolio looked up at the sky, the glow of the city lights reflecting off the bottom of the clouds overhead, casting the two men in a weird yellow light. “Been a pretty alright day to me,” he said. “Nice and quiet.”

He knew it was a mistake the instant the words had left his mouth, but who would he be if not the village asshole. Yorrick gave him a look that would have cowed a lesser man.

“They’ll text when they can,” Benvolio said, like it’d make up for the previous comment. “Paris is a long way away.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“And it’s not like the house is empty. I’m still here, y’know.”

Yorrick mumbled an acknowledgement, but Benvolio knew he wasn’t listening.

Well. If that’s how he’s gonna be.

Benvolio put the blanket around his own shoulders and went upstairs. Ran a shower that scalded him, and he stood and let the water roll down his back like it would wash away all of his sins.

He caught himself scrubbing his arms until they were raw and nearly bleeding and he didn’t even realize he was doing it until it was too late. He threw the loofa away like it was a viper that had just sunk its fangs into his hand, and he wrapped his arms around himself (because nobody else was there to do it,) and dug his nails into his shoulders.

When he came back to himself, the water was running cold.

Automatic was a good place to be, he thought, moving through the motions of running the comb through the wet strands of his hair, pushing it back away from his face. Brushing his teeth. s skincare routine. Opening the medicine cabinet to stare at the bottles (and not take one out.)

He was halfway to the door when he remembered that the balcony was not somewhere he wanted to be, and stayed inside.

In the bedside table was a spare pack of cigarettes, and he lit one of these instead, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The nicotine helped, a little. But not quite enough.

There wasn’t an ashtray in here, but there was this afternoon’s whiskey glass, and it got the job done. He thought about lighting another, but didn’t. Gold star for self-restraint.

Beneath the floor, he heard a door shut. He knew exactly which one it was.

This big ass bed and only one body to fill it.

Yorrick at least remembered to try to make him eat. Benvolio would give him that. He’d stared tiredly across the kitchen bar, that same insistent expression buried somewhere underneath distraction and sleep deprivation.

“At least drink a glass of milk, or something.”

“Fucks my stomach up,” Benvolio mumbled, shoving half a boiled egg in his mouth before remembering he couldn’t stand the damn things.

He’d expected Yorrick to turn all that motherly attention he’d showered on the little redheaded waif to be rounded on him again when they left, but Benvolio realized that this was only so much wishful thinking. It wasn’t even more of the same - Yorrick busy with other things, other people. It was worse.

“They got in around eight this morning,” he’d said, while Benvolio smoked outside. “They sounded excited.”

“Good for them,” Benvolio grumbled.

He’d taken care of himself all his life before Yorrick walked through his door. He could do it again.

He dreamed of cold steel in the band of his jeans, and sand beneath his feet, and Yorrick’s voice behind him, and when he woke up he wasn’t alone but there was more space between them than Benvolio liked, and he pressed his nails into his arms again and when he realized he couldn’t feel it, he thought he would lose his mind.

\---

Yorrick caught him smoking in his room.

Benvolio’s skin burned (but this time just from hot water, and he would be proud of himself for that at least, it'd save him yet another touch-up,) as the autopilot led him through his routine. He stared at the rows of bottles with the labels all turned, but he knew exactly what was in each one, meticulously placed there himself.

He didn’t realize he’d opened one until the pills were down his throat.

He lit a cigarette from the bedside pack and sat on the edge of the mattress, feeling the drugs curl around his brain like warm, welcoming arms. It had been...a long time. Too long, if you’d asked him right now. Tomorrow’s Benvolio might say otherwise.

He was about halfway to his happy place when the bedroom door opened.

Yorrick had counted the cigarettes in the bedside pack - fifteen remaining. There had been seventeen the last time he’d checked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, cradling Benvolio’s head in his lap.

“Good,” Benvolio growled as he pressed a new cigarette to his lips - from his usual pack, not the one casually used to determine how many shit days he’s had where he couldn’t leave the room.

“I got so caught up in Ash that I forgot to pay attention to the person I care for the most.”

Benvolio wasn’t sure he really had needed him more than Ohache had these past few weeks, but the part of him that forever remained a spoiled, bratty child was stomping its foot and huffing and saying: _“Duh, you stupid idiot.”_

Yorrick leaned down to touch their foreheads together, his long curls brushing against Benvolio’s nose. “I didn’t realize how much you needed me.”

“Ain’t like I killed myself,” Benvolio said, taking another drag. Tomorrow he’d be mad about this, when he came home from work and the room still smelled of tobacco.

He felt Yorrick’s fingers tense ever so slightly against his jawline.

“I know you were just worried about them,” he continued, surprising himself even as the words came out of his mouth. “That whole thing was kind of a shitshow.”

“Yeah but-”

“They don’t pay you to make sure they don’t blow their brains out, and I do?”

Yorrick’s voice was low and serious. “Don’t. We’ve talked about this.”

“It was a joke, calm your tits.” Benvolio laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

Benvolio said nothing, just kept smoking. If you can’t laugh about wanting to die, what can you laugh about?

“I’m just...worried. About them.” Yorrick’s voice was soft in the silence. “They got back on their meds and they seemed okay, but I know that doesn’t mean anything, really. It’s easy to look fine on the outside and be dying on the inside.”

Pointed words, clearly.

“They wanted to go, Tob. Maybe they are okay. Maybe she’s better to them than you think she is. Better _for_ them.”

“It just feels so _drastic_.”

Benvolio snorted smoke through his nose like an emaciated dragon. “Dude, they broke out of prison, then legally _died._ And you think moving to France is the drastic part?”

“I don’t know. I just have a lot of weird feelings about them, and I can’t get it out of my head. They were so lost and miserable when we got them out…what if that happens again and she’s not able to be there for them? I’d never forgive myself if anything happened. They’re all alone over there.”

Benvolio could hear the unspoken “without me,” echoing through the empty air.

“She seemed pretty damn in love with them to me,” he said.

“Love isn’t always enough.”

_God, don’t I know it,_ Ben thought, and filled his lungs again.

Yorrick sighed, a full-body motion that lingered longer than it was welcome. “And now I’ve let you down, too. The most important person in my life and I let you do this to yourself.”

“I’m an adult too, you know. It ain’t all your fault.”

“If I’d have paid attention I could have stopped you before you relapsed again.”

“Or maybe I’m just real good at hiding my emotions and it would’ve happened anyway the next time I had a bad night. Just gotta keep moving forward and try to do better about talking when shit gets rough, or whatever.”

“You’re awfully wise tonight, Ben.”

He laughed, surprisingly genuinely, and he knew it was just the drugs. “You spout this shit off to me so fucking often I was bound to remember some of it.”

“If only you’d actually put it in practice.”

Benvolio reached an unsteady hand up and poked Toby on the nose. “Hey. The ink's still in this time. That’s something.”

Yorrick leaned down and kissed him. “It’s something.”

\---

Yorrick called them the next day on Skype, laptop set on his lap in a way that captured at least most of his frame in the shot. The connection was jittery but stable enough for him to hear their voice and all its childlike exuberance give a detailed account of everything they've seen and done. “I ate _snails,_ dude. And they were good!”

Benvolio felt Yorrick's shoulders lose their tension from his spot on the bed next to him.

It'd been Benvolio's suggestion, this call. Exorcise some demons, set his mind at ease.

“This really is your job, you know,” he'd mumbled, dredging a laptop from a closet he hadn't opened in months. They couldn’t use their personal ones, they needed the security. They were dealing with wanted criminals, after all.

Yorrick smiled, sleepy as the sun shone through the curtains on the other side of the screen. “If you need anything, you can always call. We've got a plane, I'll be there soon as I can.”

Ohache was smiling. Tired, but smiling. A real smile. Behind them, a woman lay on a sofa, a book in her hand, seemingly uninterested in the conversation passing only a few feet away from her.

“Thanks, Toby. I'm okay, though, really.” They paused, looking over their shoulder at the woman on the couch. Their face softened, a sad kind of affectionate that Benvolio knew all too well. “ _We're_ okay. I promise.”


	23. Epilogue

_May_

It was raining. Of course it was raining, because this was Paris and the only thing it ever seemed to do is rain in spring. And when it wasn’t raining, it was colder than Benvolio’s heart.

Inside of the flat, it was warm, the radiator buzzing the corner, the rain pattering on the window in a kind of cozy way, the inside matching the cheerful, 1800s style exterior. Emily lay on the couch, a book in hand, listening to Peyton tap away on their laptop across the room.

It was nice, the two of them occupying themselves within each other’s presence, enjoying being together without the obligation of actually doing anything. Picturesque. They'd settled into this domestic kind of routine together, feeling out the way life worked now one day at a time. Pey had covered every available windowsill with succulents in little colourful handmade pots, occasionally nestling newly acquired animal skulls between them. A few they'd done themselves, collected from the sides of roads and the middle of the woods. They'd chattered enthusiastically about their newfound ability to collect birds, free from some apparently tyrannical American law that Emily hadn't even been aware of.

She had hoped she'd be content to relax, to take it easy, learn to knit, something like that. She found it difficult, however, wandering aimlessly around the flat on bad days and scrubbing the kitchen for the hundreth time on better ones. Pey had tried to talk her into taking a part-time at a local shop or something, but the idea of answering to a boss again made her pulse spike. Easier to learn how to tend to Pey's beetles and catch up on her reading.

So far it was working. Occasionally stilted and a little bit awkward, but working. They lived small and wanted for nothing, thanks to the bank account stuffed with the remainder of both of their ill-gotten fortunes, which Emily affectionately called her inheritance. It...was good.

But something was missing. Something vaguely obnoxious, yet warm and comforting, right around the stomach area. A sweet low vibration to warm the bones, something soft to sink your hands into.

“Oh hey, did you know there’s a cat café down the street?” Pey’s voice floated across the room, innocent and distracted, their face not leaving their laptop screen.

Emily feigned disinterest. “Huh. Can’t believe I never saw it.”

“They have like, shelter cats and pimp them out to people and hope they’ll take them home. Apparently the coffee is good too.”

“I hate coffee.” She'd switched to tea almost immediately after they moved in, preferring the vegetal notes to the deep bitterness.

“But you like cats,” Pey replied, a singsong edge to their voice.

She sighed, sliding a bookmark between the pages of the novel she was enjoying. She'd just finished the chapter anyway. "Fine, we can go."

The cafe was cozy inside, all wood and stone walls, the bar area almost medieval in style with a thick-topped table available for those waiting for their turn in the kitty area. Behind the glass walls, Emily saw comfortable chairs, benches, and a massive (covered) fireplace, the floor covered in a heavy rug and littered with toys. And of course, on every surface: a cat.

Try as she might, she couldn’t hide the smile that spread across her face, and she knew Pey could see it. She could feel the glow of them next to her, a little beam of sunlight and excitement, the expression of emotion she never could quite master.

She handled the business of acquiring drinks and a cute little cat-shaped pastry that she had to say twice, despite being fluent in French, her accent nigh indecipherable to the waitress. “ _Je pratique_ ,” she said, “ _je suis Américain_ ,” and they forgave her.

Emily found Pey curled up in a corner with a silver and black tabby cat rolling about in their lap, purring furiously.

She sat down next to them, trying to catch the attention of a snow-white cat on a shelf above her. The white cat did not accept her invitation, so she instead sat back and sipped the tea she’d ordered (it was lovely, perfectly sweetened,) and watched Pey fawn over the silver cat, rubbing its ears until the cat was nearly in a coma of pure bliss.

“I miss Venny,” they said softly.

“Yeah, I do too. An’ Matty. Even if she was shitty.”

Pey’s eyes were distant. “The flat is empty without them.”

They were right. There was just something missing about the flat they’d lived in together for four months. It was warm, it was homey, it was theirs, together, but no amount of art and taxidermy on the walls could replace the cat hair that should be covering every inch of their clothing. Movie night wasn’t quite the same without a cat’s ass blocking the view at least once.

Pey stroked the cat’s chin. “I like this one. It reminds me of…before.”

“Is dat a good thing?”

“I mean, it was a nightmare, but…right now wouldn’t have happened without it.”

Right now. Right now, in another country, on another continent, thousands of miles from anything she’d ever known, the only reason they were even here because she made so many horrible, horrible mistakes. Right now would have never happened. She wasn’t sure if right now was worth it.

“It sucked to get here, but I think good came of it.” Pey looked up at her. “We’re better now, anyway.”

_Yeah. Better. Is that why we still stay up way too late because we’re afraid of having the same nightmare again?_

“It _is_ better, Em. I can see it, even if you can’t.”

She didn’t reply. Maybe one day she’d learn to forgive herself completely. So far it didn’t seem like it was a possibility.

They laced their fingers in hers and squeezed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

_You are. You are, you are, you are._

Pey leaned their head onto her shoulder and said nothing more.

The cats continued to lie across surfaces throughout the café, tails gently twitching.

Emily felt something soft rub against her hand, and she looked down to see a small calico tabby cautiously gazing up at her with huge green eyes. She stroked its fur, head to tail, digging her nails gently into the spot just before the tail, the cat lifting up and crooking its tail into a hook shape, the fur pluming beautifully.

“She’s been staring at you for a while, but she was too shy to come over, I think,” Pey said.

_At least you’re here._

When the tea was drunk and the pastry plate was all but licked clean, Emily snuck away from the corner of the café, fingering through the binder full of photos and profiles, pen hovering over the lines on sheets a waitress handed her, practicing her new signature (twice,) trying to remember the number to the owner of the flats they lived in.

Pey knew why she was holding papers in her hands when she came back to the spot where they were sitting, the two tabbies pressed against them.

She held out her hand to them, pulling them to their feet.

“It ain't really home without cat hair,” she said.

Pey’s face lit up, brighter than any star.

_I’ll buy you a thousand cats if it means you never lose this light,_ she thought.

“My cat needs a fancy name,” Pey said, cuddling it one last time before they put it into the little cardboard carrier printed across the front with “Je Suis Adopté!” “Something dignified…like Sebastian.”

“ _Sébastian_ ,” Emily corrected, over-exaggerating the accent. “He’s French, y’know.”

“Well, I’m not.” They thought for a moment. “We’ll come back to names, then.”

Emily picked up the box containing the calico cat, turning toward the door.

“You’ll like it at our flat. Emily buys the good cat food, and she’ll make sure you don’t get really fat. I’ll have to introduce you to Ben, and Toby, and your stepsisters Matty and Venny.”

The cat mewed pitifully in its carrier.

“I know, kitty. I had to move far away, too, but it’s okay, I promise. Anywhere is home when you’re with your best friend.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow my exploits (and see plenty of art of these characters) on my Tumblr @catouatche and Twitter @katouatche!


End file.
